


Post Tenebras Lux

by seraphina_snape



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Lydia Martin, BAMF Stiles, Blow Jobs, Bromance, Developing Relationship, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mind Control, Non-Penetrative Sex, Pack Feels, Panic Attacks, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Snark, Sterek Big Bang, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles/Scott bromance, although they make a good effort to get there, biting kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphina_snape/pseuds/seraphina_snape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finally (<i>finally</i>) having his first date with Derek, Stiles goes to sleep with butterflies in his stomach. He doesn't have to wait long for the rude awakening though: after being plagued by nightmares, he shows up at Derek's place early only to find a stranger in Derek's kitchen. </p><p>Who is the stranger? Why is he at Derek's place at eight in the morning making breakfast? And why is Derek suddenly behaving so strangely, giving the minor supernatural problem Stiles is trying to solve the brush off and generally acting like he did when he came back to Beacon Hills the first time? </p><p>Stiles' spidey sense is tingling, but all of his attempts to make the pack see the truth fail. They accept Morgan into the pack like a long lost brother and it doesn't take more than a few days for Stiles to be excluded from the pack.</p><p>On his own for the first time in years and plagued by self-doubts, Stiles has to figure out what it is that Morgan is doing to his pack and how to get them back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post Tenebras Lux

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sterek Big Bang](http://sterek-big-bang.livejournal.com/profile) on LiveJournal.
> 
> Many thanks to [](http://bumerbmw.livejournal.com/profile)[**bumerbmw**](http://bumerbmw.livejournal.com) for creating the art for this story. It's just lovely! Please go [here](http://bumerbmw.livejournal.com/33711.html) to leave her feedback. 
> 
> Lots and lots of thanks also go to my betas [](http://irishjeeper.livejournal.com/profile)[**irishjeeper**](http://irishjeeper.livejournal.com) and [Arye](http://socialmediasocrates.tumblr.com/) who took a somewhat okay story and made it a lot better by offering corrections, comments, encouragement and support. Thank you so much! ♥♥♥
> 
>  **WARNING:** This story contains the description of a panic attack and later discussion of it. The story also features mind control and violence (at the usual Teen Wolf level, including a scene of violence between Derek and Stiles while Derek is not in his right mind).

"Come again?" Stiles asked.

His dad scratched his head, his entire expression resigned and long-suffering. "I said, I think Beacon Hills has a gremlin problem." 

"Gremlins?" 

His dad looked almost pained. "Don't make me say it again, Stiles." 

"No, no. Just. Gremlins. Huh." Stiles scratched his nose. "We haven't had those in a while."

There was a small pile of police reports on the kitchen table. Seven - no, eight reports about weird break-ins. It looked like it almost hurt his dad to let Stiles rifle through the files, but Stiles knew that was the supernatural aspect of the case and not his general involvement with police affairs. He and his dad made a good crime-fighting team, with his dad doing most of the active, official crime fighting and Stiles providing very useful outside-of-the-box approaches to puzzling crimes. 

"What's this?" Stiles held up a list of dates, police codes and street names. 

"Disturbance of the peace, noise complaints, people calling animal control about 'raccoons' near the trash cans - I think they're related to the break-ins." 

"Hmm." Stiles flew over the list and then opened the first break-in file. He let out a whistle and spread out the pictures of the crime scene - a nice, middle-class house - over the kitchen table. 

"Yeah," his dad said. "No broken windows or break-in evidence at the doors and nothing was stolen. But the place was completely trashed and there was food missing from the kitchen." 

Stiles tapped on the picture of the kitchen. "Dog door in the kitchen - that what made you think gremlins?" 

His dad nodded. "All the places that got hit had dog doors. Big dogs, big dog doors. Big enough for a child. Or a really small adult - but only with circus-level contortionist training. And since I'm pretty sure there are no three-year-olds wandering around Beacon Hills, regularly trashing houses between the hours of one and three in the morning…" 

"Gremlins," Stiles concluded. "Or, you know. Not _actual_ Gremlins. Gremlin-like creatures, though." 

"We found leaves and a few twigs in all but one of the places. We sent it in, but my people are convinced they're just from the back yard, maybe brought in with the dog or the perps. But I'm thinking—"

"—the preserve? Wood-dwelling gremlins who forage for food in Beacon Hills?" 

"Wood-dwelling gremlins," his dad repeated with a sigh. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. "Why is this my life? If you wanted to act out, why didn't you shoplift or cut classes to go hang out at the mall two towns over? Why did you have to start hanging out with werewolves?"

Stiles patted his dad on the back and opened his mouth, but before Stiles could point out that at least his dad didn't have to deal with a werewolf son, his phone beeped. Stiles glanced at it and shrugged into his jacket. "Derek's outside. We're going to the diner for out alpha-to-pack-mate one-on-one. I'll mention the gremlins." He smiled. "Don't worry, Dad. We'll take care of it." 

His dad sat down, dropping heavily into his chair. "I'll just be here, wishing my biggest problem was hiring replacement deputies after a devastating but entirely human attack on my department. Not a kanima or gremlin - or werewolf - in sight." 

Stiles laughed. "Well, I can—" 

He was interrupted by his cell phone again. Glancing down, Stiles rolled his eyes. "Seriously, the guy spends months hanging around the school like a big creeper and now he has issues because the neighbor's been watching him waiting outside the house for the last two minutes." 

"He could have just come in," his dad said. 

Stiles made a face. His dad wasn't Derek's biggest fan, but he could be civil to him when they happened to find themselves in the same room. Derek didn't dislike his dad, but in a town full of bad memories, the man who had arrested him and ordered an autopsy on his dead sister brought out some of the worst. 

"Go," his dad said. "Have fun." 

"Fun," Stiles muttered. "Derek is gonna hate this gremlin thing even more than you do." 

His dad raised his head from the paperwork and gave him a look. "Are you still here?"

Stiles huffed and left.

#

He was right. Derek hated the fact that they apparently had a gremlin problem in Beacon Hills. He hated the fact that the reprieve from the supernatural that had settled over Beacon Hills had ended with the appearance of gremlins. He hated the fact that Stiles called the whatever-they-were gremlins with a straight face. Naturally that made Stiles say it at least four times more in the short car ride over to the diner.

 _Ellie's Diner_ on the outskirts of Beacon Hills was right at the edge of the woods and had become a Hale pack hangout over the last year. Eating a large breakfast on the morning after the full moon had become the sort of tradition that the whole pack looked forward to every month, even the humans. 

The breakfast crowd flocked to _Ellie's_ like sheep to the shepherd. Stiles and Allison usually headed out to the diner early enough to grab a table for the whole pack. By now they were established enough that Ellie hardly blinked an eye at the two of them blocking the entire back booth - the largest in the diner - during the morning rush hour. They always made sure to tip generously. Stiles figured the unspoken arrangement worked out for everyone involved. 

Occasionally though the pack would descend on _Ellie's_ at other times and in a variety of combinations, sitting in a row along the counter during lunch or scattering across several of the smaller tables for a much needed greasy burger with a side of crispy beacon and cheesy fries. 

Now, on a late Tuesday evening, the diner was mostly empty. A couple in one of the back booths and a trucker at the counter were the only patrons. The usual crowd had long gone home, and no pre-game teenagers would descend on the diner in the middle of the school week. 

Ellie herself was behind the counter, like she usually was, wiping down the gleaming chrome fixtures. She looked up when Stiles opened the door. The electronic door chime that sounded whenever someone opened the door was broken - had been for as long as Stiles could remember. When he pushed the door open, the door chime gave a choked off buzz that made Derek wince every single time. It wasn't a pleasant sound to his human ears, and Stiles didn't want to know what it sounded like to werewolf ears. 

"Evening, boys," Ellie greeted them. 

"Hi, Ellie," Stiles said. Next to him, Derek gave her a friendly nod. Stiles sighed internally. Derek had come a long way since the days of his first reappearance in Beacon Hills. Or even his second reappearance where he'd come back as an alpha once again and with marginally improved social skills, probably thanks to Cora's influence. He was still gruff and scowled for more than seventy percent of the time, but at least he had learned how to communicate properly - without death threats. 

"Just you two tonight?" 

At their nods, Ellie waved at the nearly empty diner. "Sit down wherever; I'll be right there." 

Instead of heading for their usual booth, Derek steered him to a smaller table at the window. They usually didn't bother with the window seats. None of the tables could fit all of the pack at once and the view wasn't that spectacular. Stiles could see part of the parking lot, the road and the dark silhouette of trees against a darker background on the other side of the road. 

"What can I get you?"

Stiles turned from the window to look up at Ellie. She had run the diner since before his parents had gotten married, or so his dad said. It was impossible to guess her age. She had to be at least seventy, but despite the steel gray hair and the wrinkles, Ellie was as light on her feet after an entire shift as any of the other waitresses. Maybe more so.

Derek ordered a chocolate milkshake and a burger, Stiles opted for a strawberry shake and extra curly fries with his own burger. 

A few minutes later, Stiles started chewing on the straw of his milkshake as he looked out of the window. The waxing moon was just rising above the tree tops of the forest. The Harvest Moon was in six days and Stiles was already looking forward to the breakfast on the morning after. It was an anniversary of sorts: one year since the pack had officially come together as a united pack. One year since Boyd had come back from the dead. One year since Scott had decided to take Derek's offer to join their two packs. 

Scott was a natural alpha, a True Alpha. He'd done well as the alpha of his own pack while Derek and Cora were away. But a pack made of humans, a banshee, and a few werewolves whose loyalties had been shaky at first didn't make for a lot of stability. They hadn't been weak - they'd dealt with every new threat that had been drawn to Beacon Hills after the Nemeton had re-awakened. Ultimately, though, being an alpha wasn't just dangerous for Scott; it was dangerous for everyone close to him. Joining packs with Derek's two-werewolf pack (three if you counted Jackson - who hadn't returned to Beacon Hills but still had a tenuous bond to Derek as his alpha, although Stiles suspected that was more in order to avoid omega status rather than any feelings of true loyalty) meant they could pool resources. Having two alphas in the pack had advantages. Obviously Scott still argued with Derek. He was the voice of reason, the one arguing the human side where Derek's relied completely on his wolfish instincts. But they complemented each other as leaders, making the pack more balanced and thus a lot more efficient when dealing with supernatural threats. It worked out pretty well for them. 

"Hey," Stiles said, bringing himself out of his thoughts. "We should do anniversary gifts. One year as a pack; that should be worth a watch or something."

Derek raised his eyebrows at him. "It's not my fault you destroyed your watch." 

"It is, too!" Stiles insisted. "You're the one who brought up that spell to deal with the spirit problem. I needed a temporal focus to get rid of that spirit and send it back to its own time. My watch exploded, Derek. It _exploded_." 

"No one forced you to use _your_ watch." 

"Yeah, but nobody volunteered theirs either, did they?" 

Derek shrugged. "You could have bought a cheap one for the casting."

"It was choking people to death. When, exactly, would I have had time to run to Walmart?" Stiles shook his head. "Nope. It's our one year anniversary and you owe me a watch. Get a nice one." 

"Congratulations, boys," Ellie said, putting two plates down in front of them. "You should have said. I know this isn't the most romantic place, but I could bring you a candle?" 

Stiles nearly choked on a mouthful of his strawberry shake and started coughing violently. He didn't hear what Derek told Ellie, but two minutes after she'd left the table, the old jukebox in the corner started playing a love song medley and Ellie went back to polishing the counter with a smile on her face. 

And Derek - Derek was _blushing_. Stiles didn't even try to contain his laughter. Derek Hale, whose emotional range usually ran from stoic to pissed off, with absolutely zero consideration given to embarrassment of himself (didn't usually happen) or others (happened quite a bit whenever Stiles was in the room), was blushing. It was adorable - his neck, his cheeks and the tips of his ears were flushed red. Stiles wanted to reach out and touch his ears, maybe lean over and lick--

Stiles stuffed a handful of curly fries into his mouth and tried not to think about licking any part of Derek's body. No matter how much he might want to put his mouth on Derek, it wasn't a good idea to let his thoughts wander in that direction. It wasn't like Derek didn't _know_. Scott had entertained him throughout high school by telling him about all the impossible crushes he'd picked up on thanks to his werewolf senses. So Derek had to know that Stiles occasionally got caught up in tracing the lines of muscles in Derek's abdomen with his eyes during pack practice or that his heart beat a little faster whenever he got to spend time alone with Derek.

In a way Stiles was grateful that Derek never mentioned it. Even though he'd been well on his way to being friends with Lydia in sophomore year, hearing her say that he never stood a chance as a romantic partner had still hurt. By that point carrying a torch for her had been habit more than anything else, but retiring a dream he'd had since third grade had still been painful. He didn't know if what he felt for Derek was necessarily stronger - but it _was_ different. 

No matter how much he had loved Lydia, Stiles hadn't really known her until all the crazy werewolf business threw them into a weird sort of …not friendship, not back then. An alliance, maybe. He had never had a real conversation with her until after he'd been in love with her for years. In some ways it had made him like her even more. But it had also opened his eyes to a lot of things about Lydia, himself and the two of them together. 

Derek, he hadn't even _liked_ when they first met. Back then he would have been happy if Derek disappeared from their lives completely. He had noticed Derek's face and his body and his general level of attractiveness, of course, but Stiles hadn't really warmed up to Derek as a person until after he'd seen the way Derek stepped into harm's way to protect his pack time and again. He tirelessly searched for Erica and Boyd. In hindsight Stiles had probably already been half in love with Derek by the time he saved Cora's life by way of giving up his alpha powers. 

After Derek and Cora left Beacon Hills, Stiles had examined his feeling thoroughly and came up with: Derek's face was attractive, but Stiles wasn't just attracted to his pretty face - he was actively attracted to the man behind the face. He liked Derek's smart mouth and the fact that sarcasm, not violence, was usually his first reaction. He liked Derek's loyalty and the way he struggled to do the right thing even if it hurt him. He wasn't always successful, but he tried. He liked Derek's stubbornness and his devotion to his family, or what little he had left of it. He liked _Derek_ , even though Derek was an ass sometimes. In short: Stiles liked Derek and he really, really wanted to kiss him. 

Around that same time Stiles had realized how completely fucked he was. Not only was he in love with a surly former alpha werewolf seven years his senior, but said werewolf had also just left town for parts unknown, with no return date in sight. 

Six months later, Derek had come back, alpha powers restored and his relationship with Cora a little more settled, and clutching a bag of possessions that had been in a storage unit in New York. When Derek unpacked the bag - picture frames, a few knick-knacks, an old-looking book in the new apartment he'd rented in a different part of town - another loft, but without a skylight and a better alarm system - Stiles had figured that was it. That was his chance. Derek was settling down, putting his roots back down in Beacon Hills again. 

Unfortunately that knowledge hadn't automatically given him the courage to confess his love or at least make a somewhat serious - but not so serious that he couldn't laugh it off as a joke - pass on Derek. He was under no illusions there - Derek would probably laugh at him and then awkwardly try to let him down gently. He didn't even know if Derek liked guys. All of Derek's relationships that Stiles knew about had been with women. Even if, by some twist of fate, Derek liked men and wasn't completely against starting a relationship with Stiles, confessing his feelings still had the potential to destroyed everything. He didn't want to lose his place in the pack or the easy friendship they'd developed. 

Stiles dipped another fry into the ketchup and crammed it into his already stuffed mouth. He swallowed, then reached for his drink when it felt like a huge glob of only half-chewed fries was stuck in his throat. Derek gave him an exasperated look and Stiles found his heart rate calm down a little.

Stiles grabbed another fry and popped it in his mouth. "So, why are we here? We haven't had anything supernatural pop up apart from our new little pest problem and you didn't even know about that until I told you on the way over." 

"Don't speak with your mouth full," Derek said. 

Stiles rolled his eyes, but swallowed before he spoke again. "Okay, whatever. But about the gremlins - I'm not entirely sure what they are, yet, but I know they're probably not pixies or any other fairy creature." 

"If you don't know what they are, then how do you know they're not pixies? These pranks are definitely pointing at pixies." 

Stiles shook his head. "No fairy dust anywhere - my dad would have mentioned that - and no magic circles in the woods. Scott and Isaac go running in the preserve a few times a week and they didn't didn't mention any magic circles. If we'd had pixies in town for three weeks, we would have found some evidence in the woods."

"What else is on the list of possibilities?" 

Stiles tilted his head to the side and hummed. "I'd say Imps, maybe Leprechauns, Elves--"

"You said it wasn't fairy creatures!" 

"Elves aren't fairies. They're not even a sub-species. So, Elves, Goblins, Fauns, Kobolde, Boggarts and… I don't know. Maybe it _is_ Gremlins again."

"Those weren't Gremlins. Gremlins are about as real as Bigfoot." 

"That would be 100 % real then?" At Derek's look, Stiles sighed. "Fine, be a killjoy. If I give you a list of possible signs to watch for that could help us pinpoint which of these creatures is wreaking havoc in town, can you keep an eye out on Monday night? I know that the moon brings out your wolfy powers or something, so maybe you'll spot something you missed during daylight." 

"It doesn't bring out any--it doesn't work that way," Derek said. "The moon pulls the wolf closer to the surface, but it doesn't _do_ anything." 

"It does, though," Stiles argued. "If the wolf is closer to the surface, that means you're working on instinct more than reason. Your instincts will tell you if something is off even if your rational mind doesn't recognize any obvious danger." 

"Two weeks in college and you're already using Psych 101 on me?" 

"What can I say? I like seeing the practical application of theoretical concepts." Stiles leaned back in his seat. "Speaking of college, have I told you about Professor Conn? I am 87 percent sure he's a vampire."

Derek sighed. "Vampires don't exist, Stiles." 

"Nope, still not buying it," Stiles said, shaking his head. He narrowed his eyes. "Hang on. Is that like the thing with the Gremlins? Not the new maybe-Gremlins but the other ones. The Gremlins you say weren't really Gremlins."

"Because they weren't Gremlins!" 

"They were cute and fluffy and then they ate the wrong thing and they turned into raging monsters," Stiles argued. "Gremlins!" 

Derek rolled his eyes and Stiles took a moment to appreciate the patented Hale Exaggerated Eye Roll in its perfect execution. Derek denied it, but Stiles was certain it was genetic. Why else would Cora and Peter be a 6 and 7 respectively on the Hale Exaggerated Eye Roll scale?

"Okay, so they aren't called Gremlins, but that's what they were!" Stiles stubbornly insisted. "So. Professor Conn. Do I need to take a wood whittling class to make us some stakes or what?"

"Vampires don't exist, Stiles. There are no blood-sucking mammals in Beacon Hills." 

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it again. Arguing the point further meant Derek would bring out the sassy eyebrows. Stiles considered this for a moment, then said: "Technically, there are bats in Beacon Hills. Bats suck blood."

"Only vampire bats suck blood. Those aren't native to California." Derek raised his eyebrows. "Now, do you want me to keep going or can we all accept that vampires aren't real and move on?"

"Shut up," Stiles muttered. "I'm talking to a real life werewolf. How can vampires not be real? It doesn't make sense!" He inwardly resolved to keep a very detailed record about Professor Conn's appearances in direct sunlight. At the first sign of sparkly skin, Stiles was going to get his Buffy on and stake himself a vampire. He grinned. Oh yeah. Stiles the Vampire Slayer. Complete with a grumpy werewolf sidekick and the adorable hunter/werewolf couple as his backup.

Derek reached over and stole one of his last curly fries, shaking Stiles out of his fantasy. "Eat your burger." 

Stiles sniffed, but picked up his burger. 

"It's cold," he complained. 

"Then you should have eaten instead of arguing with me about vampires," Derek said. 

A year ago, Stiles would have thought Derek was uncomfortable and annoyed throughout their conversation. Now he _knew_ that Derek was uncomfortable and annoyed, but also amused and maybe a little bit fond of the random and weird topics Stiles routinely wanted to discuss.

Stiles finished his burger in four big bites, stuffing the rest of the bun into his mouth until his cheeks puffed out as far as they would go. Chewing was a bit of a problem like this, but Stiles had never met a food he couldn't master eventually. 

Derek just shook his head and signaled Ellie for the check.

Stiles grinned so wide that he had to stop because soppy bits of burger were falling out of his mouth.

#

"You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think this was a date," Stiles said, coming to a stop in front of his door.

Derek, two steps behind him, stumbled slightly. 

Stiles turned to him, eyes wide in realization. "Oh my god, is this--"

"It's not a date," Derek interrupted. "We're just two guys who went to eat something. Definitely not a date." 

"You picked me up. You listened to every single one of my stories and told me you'd bash my head in if I didn't shut up only like two times. _Two_ times. That's nothing." Stiles held up his hand, counting down as he listed his evidence. "You paid for dinner. _You walked me to my door._ "

Derek scowled at him. 

"Was this supposed to be a date? Is that why we didn't actually talk about any supernatural threat apart from the Gremlins? Because this wasn't an alpha-packmate meeting but a _date_?" 

Derek didn't flinch, but the muscles in his shoulders tensed. If Stiles hadn't been watching him carefully, he would have missed the way Derek started to lower his head before catching himself and looking up again to glare at Stiles. 

"Derek?" Stiles asked, his voice a little softer. "Was this supposed to be a date?" 

Stiles watched Derek for a reaction, something that would give him a clue as to what, exactly, was going on. But Derek stood frozen in place. Stiles wasn't even sure he was breathing.

For a split second, Stiles wanted to laugh it off, pretend the last five minutes hadn't happened and go back to the status quo. Maybe slap Derek's back and congratulate him on successfully making a joke. 

Stiles might have been attracted to Derek since his sophomore year of high school - when they weren't quite a pack yet, but no longer enemies or even the reluctant allies as they had been before the alpha pack - but the thought that Derek might be attracted to him never crossed his mind. Sure, Stiles has had fantasies of the two of them living happily ever after. But he'd never seriously thought that he had any chance in hell with Derek Hale, he of the chiseled face and tragic past. Stiles was just a dorky kid, barely out of high school who had a problem with sitting still. Derek was… Derek.

Stiles frowned.

Derek looked like he was going to bolt at any moment. 

Stiles bit his lip, his mind racing. Should he admit to having a crush on Derek? But what if this really _wasn't_ a date and Derek was actually very annoyed and trying not to punch him? The fact that Derek hadn't told him to shut up or threatened to punch his teeth in yet spoke in favor of it being a date. And Derek hadn't denied it since that first pathetic attempt to deflect Stiles' question. 

"Hypothetically speaking..." Stiles said slowly. Oh my god, was he really going to do this? "If this was a date, it'd be a pretty good one." Apparently, he _was_ going to do this.

Derek didn't say anything, but Stiles thought he could see the edges of his scowl soften a little.

"I mean... good food, good company, what's not to like?" He smirked. "Although I'll have to dock you points for the lack of communication on your part. I practically had to carry the conversation for the entire evening."

Derek's posture was still tense, but his face took on a more neutral expression. "If you'd let me get a word in edgewise..." 

"Are you saying I talk too much?" Stiles put a hand on his chest in mock affront. 

"You never shut up," Derek said gruffly. "You wouldn't be you if you did." 

"Aww, I knew you lo--liked me anyway," Stiles crowed, mentally berating himself for the near slip-up. There was no way Derek hadn't noticed. 

They were quiet for a moment and Stiles realized that this was it. The moment that would decide if this was a date or just two guy eating a burger. He could tell Derek he'd see him at the pack meeting the next day, go inside and they'd never talk about this again. He was still half-convinced he was reading this all wrong, that dinner _had_ just been one of the one-on-one meetings Derek and Scott had - separately - with everyone in the pack from time to time. 

But. 

Derek had been completely relaxed at the diner. He had smiled several times during the evening (eight times, not that Stiles had been counting or anything). He'd casually told Stiles the truly hilarious story about Laura's first crush without wearing the doom and gloom expression that usually appeared whenever he talked about his family. As far as Stiles could tell, Derek hadn't touched him more than usual, but now that he thought back on it, maybe Derek's hand had lingered a bit - more than it should have if it wasn't a date.

"If we were on a date," Stiles said, heart racing, "now would be the perfect moment for a kiss." He raised his eyes to meet Derek's and found Derek staring at him. Stiles' heart skipped a beat and he hoped he hadn't read this wrong. He took a step closer to Derek, bringing them chest to chest. 

"Hypothetically speaking, of course," Stiles added. He kept his eyes on anything but Derek, not sure that he could handle seeing Derek's reaction. What if it wasn't a date? Stiles didn't want a close-up look at Derek's face if it wasn't. He'd fall back on the tried and tested Stilinski approach and pretend nothing was wrong. But he couldn't do that if he had to look into Derek's eyes and see rejection or - worse - pity. Stiles bit his lip to keep his nervous babble inside and waited. 

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his elbow. His eyes flickered over to Derek's face automatically, but Derek wasn't looking at him. Not at his eyes, at least.

Derek's gaze was fixed on Stiles' mouth and Stiles reflexively licked his lips. 

"Hypothetically," Derek murmured. He swayed forward, his jacket brushing against Stiles', and brought their faces close enough that Stiles could feel Derek's breath on his lips. 

Stiles waited for a beat, but when Derek didn't move, Stiles closed the small gap and pressed his lips to Derek's. Stiles' eyes fell close, the image of Derek, heavy-lidded and close enough for Stiles to see each individual eyelash, burned into his mind. Derek kissed him back, gentle pressure and soft touches, but he didn't make an attempt to deepen the kiss. Stiles was content for now just to rest his lips against Derek's and process the way Derek's beard felt against his chin and the way Derek's hip felt under his hand. 

Stiles felt a little light-headed when Derek pulled away. "So," he said. "That was—" 

"Yeah," Derek agreed. 

Down the street, a car door slammed and the sound of distant conversation floated over to them. Derek glanced over his shoulder. "It's late. I should go." 

Stiles wanted to reach out and curl his fingers into Derek's hair, pulling him closer until they were kissing again. He wanted to kiss Derek until he couldn't breathe and then he wanted to take a deep breath and start kissing him again. At the same time, however, his brain was going at full speed, and his thoughts were so jumbled that Stiles had trouble clinging to any one of the million things he wanted to say to Derek. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," Derek said, and Stiles wanted to commit the sight of him to memory so that, for the rest of his life, he could remember how hopeful and scared and pleased and _happy_ Derek looked. 

"Tomorrow," Stiles confirmed. He smiled, not even bothering to hide how happy he was.

Derek smiled back. There was a second of hesitation, and then Derek darted in and pressed another quick kiss to Stiles' lips. "See you tomorrow," he murmured. 

Stiles watched him jog down the path and get into his car, trying - and succeeding - to catch another glimpse of Derek's smile as he drove off. 

The house was quiet and dark when Stiles opened the door. His dad must have gone to sleep already, the old man. Leaning back against the door, Stiles touched his lips in wonder. All the reasons of why he and Derek together were a bad idea were still true. But bad idea or not, it was definitely happening. 

A few minutes later, lying in bed, Stiles imagined that he could taste still faint traces of chocolate milkshake on his lips. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

#

"You're up early," his dad said when Stiles breezed into the kitchen at half past seven the next morning. "Didn't you say you didn't have class until later?"

"I did and I don't," Stiles said cheerfully. "How awesome is college?"

"Wait until you have seven papers all due in the same week and then we can talk again about how great college is," his dad said dryly.

#

Eight fifteen on a Wednesday morning was not too early for a visit, Stiles decided. Derek's loft - the new one, not the one he'd had before leaving Beacon Hills with his sister for the second time - was open to the pack 24/7, courtesy of the keys they all had. Technically, the keys were for emergencies, but Stiles had used his at any opportunity ever since Derek had handed it to him and he didn't see a reason to change it now that they were…whatever they were.

After falling asleep the night before, Stiles had had pleasant dreams for about an hour. After that, his dreams had switched to nightmares. Every possible negative outcome of their relationship had played out before his eyes, from Derek pretending nothing had happened between them to Derek betraying him with a pretty brunette to one of them dying. He'd spent the last four hours lying awake, calling up the image of Derek looking at him with so much hope and wonder that it shattered the remains of the nightmares still clinging to his subconscious mind. 

"Derek! Are you up?" Stiles dropped his backpack by the door. He didn't have class until ten - reason 153 why college was awesome and way, way better than high school ever was. 

Stiles took a few steps inside. He could hear the rush of water from the bathroom - Derek was taking a shower. Stiles could feel the dirty grin slip onto his face at the thought of Derek, wet and naked, soaping up his smooth chest before running his hands down to--

Stiles froze. 

There was a stranger in Derek's apartment. 

He blinked. There was a tall, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, in Derek's kitchenette. Stiles blinked again. The stranger was apparently comfortable enough in Derek's apartment not to wear any shoes. 

The noise of the shower cut off and not a minute later the door to Derek's bathroom opened and Derek stepped out, followed by a small cloud of steam. Derek was wearing a pair of tight-fitting jeans and nothing else, running a towel over his bare chest. Stiles took a few moments to wonder how he'd managed to get into jeans that tight when his skin was still damp, but Derek was still half-naked and his brain couldn't focus. Derek's hair was plastered to his head and shining wetly. For a second, Stiles forgot about the barefoot stranger and simply admired the view. Reflexively, though, he lowered his eyes after a few heartbeats - he didn't want to be caught staring. 

Although—wasn't Stiles allowed to stare? Or at least _look_ at Derek? They'd had one date, sort of, and they'd made out on his front steps. Stiles was pretty sure that meant he was allowed to look at Derek's bare chest and think dirty thoughts. 

The clink of crockery from the kitchen startled Stiles and brought him back to reality. He felt his stomach sink. There was some guy in Derek's kitchen and apparently Derek was comfortable enough to leave him alone while he took a shower and then walked around half naked. Not that the shirtlessness necessarily said anything - this was Derek Hale, Beacon Hills' probably most unsubtle exhibitionist. Stiles had seen Derek without his shirt on more times than he could count on one hand during the first six months of their acquaintance. The number had gone up considerably over time. 

Derek raised the towel over his head and dried his hair. Stiles was torn. The play of muscles on Derek's chest and arms was a fascinating and quite frankly erotic sight, but the presence of the stranger made Stiles more uncomfortable that the sudden tightness of his jeans. 

Derek stopped drying his hair and slung the towel over his shoulders. His eyes went to the stranger in the kitchen and then to Stiles. There was something about the look in Derek's eyes that made him flush. When Stiles had planned this surprise visit, he'd planned to greet Derek with a kiss and the promise of more to come once he was back from his classes. Now, however, it was clear that Stiles wouldn't be even able to work up the courage to hug Derek. Had he really misread the situation the night before? Derek hadn't really denied it was a date, but he hadn't confirmed it, either, had he?

But he had definitely kissed Stiles back. He hadn't imagined _that_. 

"The pack meeting isn't until tonight," Derek said flatly.

Taken aback, Stiles couldn't stop his eyes to flick over to the stranger in Derek's kitchen. Who was that guy? Why would Derek mention the pack in front of him? Was he from another pack? "Yeah, I know. But--I thought--"

"Well?" Derek crossed his arms. 

"Nothing. It's not important." 

Derek's expression didn't change and Stiles felt like an unruly child being told to explain himself. 

"Um. I have that list I was talking about yesterday. About the gremlin thing. What it could be, I mean." 

Derek stared at him for a beat, then raised his eyebrows in expectation. 

"Um, right." Stiles picked up his backpack and, holding on to it with one hand, wrestled with the zipper of the front compartment with his other hand. Derek took the list and skimmed over it. Stiles couldn't stop himself from watching the stranger while Derek was busy with the list. The stranger was completely oblivious to them - or he appeared to be. There was no way he couldn't hear them. Derek's place wasn't that big. Even if he wasn't a werewolf, the guy wouldn't have any problem at all overhearing their conversation. Which made less and less sense the more Stiles thought about it. Derek seemed to have gone through a personality transplant overnight. He'd always been gruff and, while not exactly laconic, he wasn't a big talker either. But after their kisses the night before, Stiles had expected something more than ten rather unfriendly words. 

Unless… yes, that must be it. Derek couldn't - or wouldn't - say anything in front of the stranger. They hadn't even talked about whatever the hell they were to each other. Derek was a private person. He knew the guy, that much was obvious, but he didn't want to discuss personal matters in front of him. As for mentioning the pack - Stiles had a feeling that Derek didn't know that many people who weren't at all involved with the supernatural somehow. 

"Look, I have class in a few minutes," Stiles said, hoping his heart didn't jump too much at the lie. One day had 1440 minutes. Comparatively speaking, 105 minutes were just 'a few'. "Can you look over the list and maybe mark the ones you think are most likely?" 

Derek crumpled the list and stuffed it into his pocket. 

Stiles frowned at the dismissive gesture as he went to pick up his backpack and put it back on, but he didn't comment on it. "I'll see you tonight," he said to Derek. He and the stranger had ignored each other so far and Derek hadn't made a move to introduce them, so Stiles didn't exactly feel bad about leaving without saying goodbye to the guy. He pulled the loft door closed behind him and stood in the hallway for a beat, trying to shake the feeling that something very wrong was going on. There was a pack meeting that night, and another one on Sunday, the day before the full moon. Derek hadn't seemed upset or hurt. He could explain what was going on at the pack meeting. Everything was fine.

That's what Stiles told himself as he headed to the campus an hour early, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach.

#

Stiles could hardly concentrate on any of his classes. His ten a.m. class could have been on the history of vibrators, and he wouldn't have noticed. If he hadn't trained his brain in high school to take notes automatically, he wouldn't have a clue as to what he'd done all day. As it was, he had a stack of notes he could go over at a point where his brain wasn't picking apart the encounter with a stranger in Derek's loft that morning and Derek's odd behavior. Hopefully, the pack meeting would give him some answers - and the chance to talk to Derek one-on-one would be nice, too.

Stiles got to the loft half an hour early, to give him and Derek a chance to talk before the pack with their super-hearing invaded the place. The thought of finally being able to hug Derek lifted his spirits, and Stiles was actually whistling when he entered the loft. Only to find Derek not alone. 

The stranger still hadn't put on any shoes, but at least Derek was fully dressed and there were a respectable fifteen inches between them on the couch. Derek also looked like he was having the time of his life while the stranger - seriously, who _was_ this guy? - told him something amusing. Both of them looked up when Stiles came into the room. 

Derek frowned and glanced at the clock. "You're early." 

Stiles frowned right back at him. Even on the days where he didn't feel a burning need to talk to Derek in private, he was sometimes early. It had never garnered that sort of reaction from Derek though. "What is with you today? You're like ten times as grumpy. Do I have to be afraid that your angry eyebrows have finally taken over and it'll all be doom and gloom from now on?"

Instead of rolling his eyes or delivering a witty reply, Derek just glared at him and then stalked off to the kitchen. Stiles glanced at the stranger. The guy was picking at an invisible thread on the seam of his jeans, seemingly completely focused on himself. Stiles shrugged and followed Derek into the kitchen. If Derek was going to act like a pissed-off ferret for not apparent reason, well, then he'd just have to deal with Stiles not having any of it.

"Can we talk?" Stiles asked. He kept his voice relatively low, but Stiles knew that wouldn't guarantee them any privacy. The kitchen was part of the open plan downstairs area of the loft, separated from the living room by a tall shelf that acted as a pantry. It meant that Stiles could still see the stranger on the coach if he made the effort to squint between boxes of cereal and bags of flour, but it also meant that unless they whispered or left for one of the bedrooms, their conversation could still be heard on the other side of the room. Especially since he didn't know if the stranger was a werewolf or not - if he was, even the bedrooms wouldn't be truly private. 

"Talk about what?" Derek asked. 

Stiles gave him a 'what do you think?' look. "Any number of things," Stiles said. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and pointed behind him. "That guy, for one, and where he came from," he said quietly enough that he could be reasonably sure the stranger hadn't heard him. He continued even quieter, breathing deeply to keep his heart from hammering too wildly. "What happened last night. What's going to happen next." 

Derek pressed his lips together for a moment, then his eyes flickered over to the living room behind Stiles. Stiles turned his head, but the stranger hadn't moved. 

"Derek?" he asked.

"No now, Stiles," Derek said gruffly. 

The initial sting at Derek's words faded when a new issue immediately presented itself: Derek opened the fridge and took out a plate of sandwiches. 

Stiles frowned. He usually made the snacks for pack meetings. They'd spent the first hour or so talking, and then someone would mention food. After the inevitable fight over what kind of takeout to get, Stiles would roll his eyes and make sandwiches or homemade pizza or - on one memorable occasion - chocolate cake. 

"Okay, fine. But can we at least mention the gremlins at the meeting? And maybe assign search grids to look for clues?" Stiles asked. He looked at Derek. "You did go over the list I gave you, didn't you?"

Derek pushed past Stiles and grabbed a can of soda. "I don't have time for this. It's probably not even supernatural." 

"But the—"

"You said it yourself, Stiles. No fairy dust, no magic circles, no magic anything, anywhere. There is nothing here but a few break-ins."

"Break-ins?" 

Stiles jumped at hearing someone's voice right behind him. He took a step to the side and turned, not wanting a stranger at his back. Was it just his imagination, or was there a small glint of satisfaction and amusement in the guy's eyes?

"Break-ins," he repeated. "Sounds like a job for the police." 

"That's what I've been saying," Derek said. He exchanged a wry grin with the stranger. 

Stiles felt his gut clench. 

Then the stranger turned his eyes to Stiles and held out his hand. "Hi. Sorry, but it seems like Derek doesn't have better manners these days than he did five years ago. I'm Morgan." 

Stiles shook Morgan's hand automatically, ignoring the way it felt like he was dipping his hand into a vat of oil - smooth, but somewhat slimy and uncomfortable. "Stiles." 

"That's an unusual name," Morgan said. "Nickname?"

From somewhere, Stiles summoned a weak smile. "Yeah. My real name is Polish - I'm not even sure that _I_ can pronounce it correctly." 

Morgan laughed politely. "Well, why don't we sit and wait for the others? Maybe have a sandwich. I made them earlier. My little contribution to the pack," he added with a small smile. 

Stiles was about to ask how, exactly, Morgan fit into their pack when he'd been here for less than twenty-four hours, but the door burst open and Scott and Isaac came in, arguing over motorbikes.

#

Stiles sat in his usual place between Scott and Boyd, moodily picking at his fingernails. Watching Derek introduce Morgan to the rest of the pack had been weird. Not only because Derek seemed excited to have an 'old friend' visiting - excited in a way that Derek usually wasn't, which was extra weird when compared to how gruff and annoyed he'd been earlier - but also because Boyd was the only one who so much as blinked at the fact that a complete stranger was invited to attend their pack meeting. Isaac had even put his sandwich aside to shake Morgan's hand and Isaac never stopped eating for any reason. He'd once fought off a redcap with an apple clenched in his teeth.

Stiles felt a little vindicated by the fact that Boyd seemed to think it was weird, too, but by the time the second plate of sandwiches was polished off (Morgan had gone into the kitchen to make another batch and Stiles was almost ashamed to admit that he'd eaten two more of the truly delicious tuna sandwiches), Boyd was chatting with Morgan like they were old friends, too. 

Stiles frowned. Everyone seemed to treat Morgan like he'd always been here. Scott had clapped him on the back earlier. Allison, after hearing that he'd spent some time in Seattle, reminisced with him about what was apparently the best coffee shop on the West Coast. Cora hadn't actively talked to Morgan, but she didn't seem to be bothered by his presence, though she was usually against everything and everyone new. 

So Stiles hung back a little and watched Morgan play the social butterfly, flitting from one of his friends to the next but always coming back to Derek in between conversations with various pack members. The only one Morgan hadn't approached directly yet was Stiles. Stiles wasn't sure why. Maybe he was giving off strong 'stay away' vibes. That wasn't to say he didn't talk to Morgan at all, he just hadn't had any one-on-one conversations with the guy. He even made a few lame jokes. But every time Stiles started to relax, something popped up that pinged his spidey sense, like Isaac not shrugging of Morgan's hand on his back or Allison going into detail about the different types of arrows she used.

The pack meetings had originally been a way to keep both packs updated on what the other half was doing, organizing attacks and defenses and keeping on top of the latest threats to the town and its inhabitants. After the situation had stabilized and the packs had merged into one, they continued these weekly meetings even though most of the pack kept in contact through other means over the week. Scott, Stiles, Allison, Isaac, Lydia and Boyd used to see each other at school every day. Now that they were in college, they were even more adamant about sticking to the weekly pack meetings. Stiles and Scott still played video games at least once a week. Isaac and Allison dated for a while before breaking up, but lately they seemed to have rekindled their relationship and settled into a weird possible threesome with Scott - Stiles wasn't too sure on the details, but he didn't need a werewolf's sense of smell to know that there was _something_ going on with those three. Boyd and Cora trained together pretty much every day, sometimes with Derek, sometimes alone. But now that they weren't all going to the same school, it was more important to have the whole group together every week. The meetings were a good way to touch base and reconnect with the members of the group they didn't interact with a lot.

Usually pack meetings energized Stiles. He came home tired because of the late hour, but giddy and smiling and full of energy. This pack meeting left him feeling irritated and jealous and disappointed. This morning, despite his weird dreams and getting up early, he had been riding the endorphin high from the night before. The entire world had been full of possibilities - things Stiles had never dared to think about, afraid that his hopes would be crushed. Finding Morgan at Derek's place had put a dampener on his good mood. Being ignored and treated like an unwanted, unruly child by Derek had been the icing on the cake. Plus, it had made him want to _behave_ like an unruly child. Stiles considered it relatively mature of him that he hadn't given in to the urge to stomp his feet and demand an explanation. 

Stiles watched Morgan give Isaac and Allison a charming smile before launching into a story about Derek's battle of wills with a bakery owner in Manhattan. At any other time, he would have been hanging off Morgan's lips, wanting to hear every single story about Derek's time in New York. Derek wasn't one to share things casually, not even the less abrasive version of Derek Stiles had gotten to know over the last year. There were times when he mentioned his family or he and Cora shared an in-joke, but Derek talked about his past about as much as Stiles talked about his mother. Case in point: the one time Morgan had started a story about Laura in New York, Derek had growled. Stiles had been hanging around werewolves enough to distinguish between the playful, 'siblings squabbling over the remote control' kind of growling and the real, 'I will literally bite you if you don't stop this' kind of growling. Morgan had backed off, physically scooting away from the table. Stiles hadn't even managed to feel good about it, though, because as much as he wanted not to have Morgan around, he wanted Derek upset even less. 

Stiles faked a yawn, stretched a little and started gathering his things. 

"What are you doing?"

"I'm kinda tired, Scott," Stiles said. "I think I'll head home."

"Really?" Scott asked. "Used to be you refused to go home even though you were falling asleep on the sofa."

"What can I say? I've matured. I've grown as a person. I'm finally ready to accept the limitations of my body." 

Scott gave him a suspicious look. "It was last month." 

"I—" Stiles glanced around. Allison and Isaac were still talking to Morgan. Cora was in the kitchen and Derek and Boyd were talking quietly. They were all distracted, but Stiles lowered his voice anyway. "I had nightmares last night." 

"Oh." 

Scott's suspicion turned into sympathy and Stiles felt bad about his obfuscation immediately. It wasn't a lie; he _had_ had nightmares. He let Scott think they were on the same scale as the nightmares that had plagued them both and Allison after they'd woken up the Nemeton and that wasn't okay. But there was something going on and he needed time to think. And he needed to do it in a place where he didn't have to watch Morgan charm his way into his pack mates' good graces with a plate of sandwiches, a few smiles and a couple of cute anecdotes. 

Stiles called out a goodbye and waved at his pack mates. Cora called an answer from the kitchen and Isaac and Allison waved back at him. Morgan simply raised an eyebrow at him and tilted his head to the side a little. Stiles couldn't have cared less what Morgan thought. He shifted his gaze to Boyd and Derek and waved again. Boyd shot him a small smile and a nod, but Derek gave him an uninterested, flat stare that told Stiles absolutely nothing. It was like being back in 2011, when they had still thought that Derek might be the alpha going around killing people. It was not a good feeling.

#

His dad was at work when Stiles got home and that suited Stiles just fine. He wasted no time, booting up his laptop before he even took off his jacket and kicked off his shoes.

Who was Morgan Fairfax? Where had he been these last few years? And most importantly, why was he here and what did he want with the pack? There had to be something else going on apart from an old friend coming for a visit. Stiles felt a small niggle of double. Was he overreacting? He shrugged. Even if Morgan turned out to be harmless, a background check was never a bad idea. Who did it harm if he gave in to the childish desire to find some dirt on Morgan to make the guy back off a little? Stiles shrugged. Morgan was a stupid name anyway. 

Time to do some research.

#

When his alarm woke him the next morning, Stiles was slumped over in his desk chair, head resting on his arms, one of which had large wet patch on it from where he'd drooled on himself. His neck and back were stiff and one of his arms was asleep, but what hurt a lot more than that was the memory of the night before. This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to take a chance with Derek. For all of a few hours, it had been perfect. They kissed and it was butterflies-in-his-stomach perfect. And then he'd had a nightmare and spent half the night worrying, only to have most of his fears confirmed once he saw Derek again. Gone was the shy smile and Derek's happy if hesitant demeanor. Stiles could have understood being discreet in front of a stranger or even the pack, but Derek had treated him like he wasn't even part of the pack. For most of the previous day, Stiles had felt like someone who was allowed in only because he already knew too much.

With a sigh, Stiles typed in the password for his laptop's screensaver and looked at the very meager findings of his research. Morgan Fairfax didn't have a criminal record. He also didn't have a listed address or phone number and any online searches on him had turned up nothing. Objectively speaking, that probably meant that Morgan led a quiet, uneventful existence. But Stiles found it hard to be objective in this case. That, and his hyper-vigilance had kicked up a notch at having a stranger so close to the pack - so close to the alpha. Stiles was usually better at being not quite so paranoid as before when they still had to worry about Peter and Gerard and all of the creatures that had come out of the woods when the Nemeton had first been revived. 

Not finding anything, in Stiles' eyes, was probably more worrying than finding a police record. Stiles himself, thanks to Jackson's restraining order, had a police record, even if it was sealed. Finding nothing at all meant that either Morgan had something to hide or that the life Morgan had told them about didn't exist. Either way, it was suspicious. And Stiles wouldn't sit idly by and watch his pack being infiltrated.

#

Stiles used his key to get into the McCall house. "Scott?"

"Upstairs!" came the reply, and Stiles took the stairs two at a time. 

Scott was still in his pajamas, lounging on the bed, Xbox controller in his hand. "Isn't college awesome?" he asked. 

Stiles grinned, his spirits lifting already. Talking to Scott was always a good plan. "I told you college would be a good idea." 

"You can't take credit for my decision to give college a try. Mom had already bullied me into going." 

"You mom is a smart lady." Stiles grabbed the second controller and threw himself onto the bed next to Scott. They played for half an hour until Scott paused the game and looked at him. 

"Okay, what's wrong?" 

Stiles shrugged. He'd come here to talk to Scott, but now he was less sure. Seeing Morgan lay a proprietary hand on Derek's shoulder had sent a hot spike of jealousy straight through him. What if he was just jealous? Was he just projecting because Derek was behaving a little stranger than usual? Morgan was an old friend, someone who'd known Laura. His visit probably stirred up lots of memories and feelings. Derek wasn't good at feelings, never had been. He no longer dealt with them by uttering death threats, but he hadn't turned into a touchy-feely hippie either. Most of the time, he just didn't talk about it. Maybe that was it. Their not-date and Morgan's visit were overloading Derek's capacity to deal, so he reverted back to broody, laconic self. Maybe their timing just sucked. 

"Stiles?" 

Stiles shook his head. "It's nothing." He restarted the game and thoroughly got his ass handed to him. 

With a sigh, Stiles set the controller down and looked at Scott. Going over the situation in his head was making his head spin. Talking to Scott would help. It always did, even when he was worrying about nothing. "Can we talk about Morgan?"

"Sure. What about him?"

"Well. Don't you think it's a little weird? 

"Totally!" Scott nodded enthusiastically. 

Stiles released the breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding and nodded. But then Scott continued and Stiles deflated. 

"I didn't even know Derek had friends left from his time in New York. I just assumed he'd always been an ass. How he ever made friends without biting them first is a total mystery to me."

"I was talking more about how he just appeared out of nowhere and suddenly he's Derek's best friend." 

Scott shrugged. "They haven't seen each other in a couple of years. Would _you_ just forget about a decade of friendship if I moved to another town and we didn't see each other for a few years?" 

"Of course not!" The thought alone horrified him. He and Scott had their ups and downs, but at the end of the day it was still Scott and Stiles against the world. They were more than friends. They knew each other's secrets. Stiles knew exactly why Scott's dad wasn't welcome and he had no qualms about letting Kyle McCall know that Stiles wouldn't take his shit - or let him get to Scott. And Scott knew about Stiles' mom's death and what it had done to his dad. Stiles had spent the night at the McCall's often enough when his dad had been in no state to take care of himself, let alone a child. 

But even factoring in his jealousy, Morgan rubbed Stiles the wrong way. Derek had never mentioned making close ties, in New York or elsewhere. When he talked about his past, which happened rarely enough, he talked about Laura or, even less often, his family. His tales ranged from humorous to touching, but the current of loss and guilt and pain was always palpable whenever Derek mentioned his family. It seemed incongruous to Stiles that he wouldn't have mentioned his best friend - something that should have been far easier and less traumatic to talk about than his dead family. 

"But still," Stiles said. "You don't think it's weird at all that he shows up now of all times?" 

Scott frowned. "Why? Is something happening?" 

Stiles squirmed in his seat. Normally he wouldn't have hesitated to tell Scott about his and Derek's not-date and the resulting kisses, but Scott and Derek were finally at a point where Derek would listen to Scott without taking it as an insult to his decision making skills and Scott would follow Derek's orders if the situation called for it without second-guessing his every word. Besides, Stiles wanted to know where he and Derek stood first. Stiles could feel the back of his throat ache at the thought of Derek treating their whatever-it-was as a mistake, but he didn't want Derek to start something with him when his heart wasn't in it, either. That would probably be worse than not starting anything at all. 

In the end, Stiles only told Scott about the gremlin situation.

Scott agreed with him about the gremlins, but he didn't seem to have any reservations about Morgan. "I dunno, it just seems like a coincidence. The gremlin thing started way before Morgan got into town, right? So he's probably not involved in that. He didn't smell like a threat."

Stiles wrinkled his nose. "The smelling people thing is still creepy," he said. 

"Look, I'll ask Derek about the gremlins later," Scott said. "And I don't know how long Morgan is staying, but we can keep our eye on him, right?"

"Right," Stiles agreed, breathing somewhat easier. He picked the controller back up. "One more game before I have to head to class?"

#

Lydia blew out of the classroom as soon as the professor finished his last sentence. It was still a few days away, but her first full moon away from the pack was fast approaching. Even though she wasn't a wolf, she could almost feel the pull of the moon. They had done some research on Banshees after the discovery of what she was. She could control her powers, such as they were, but she hadn't been without her pack's immediate support for the last two years. Lydia had no doubts about being able to handle the separation or deal with whatever supernatural crap might be lurking in Boston, but that didn't make it any less daunting to be on her own, so far away from the pack.

It was early evening, but the campus was still as busy as it was around noontime. It was probably due to the fact that the semester had only just started. People were enthusiastic and full of energy. In two months time, it would probably be deader than the Beacon Hills cemetery at midnight. (Despite Stiles' numerous comparisons to Sunnydale, Beacon Hills only had one cemetery. It was a rather large cemetery, but Isaac still worked the odd shift there if he needed some quick cash and he hadn't seen a single vampire yet. At least not that he was aware of.) 

Full moon nights were always pack nights. She, Stiles and Allison would watch horror movies or marathon any kind of supernaturally-themed tv shows and then head to Ellie's diner to have breakfast with the pack. Sometimes Danny would join them. Even though he wasn't strictly speaking part of the pack, there had been a time when Ethan, Aiden and Danny had been pack-adjacent, as Stiles called it. Now the twins had moved on to parts unknown, she was in Boston, and Danny was in San Francisco. Allison and Stiles had to fend for themselves. It was almost enough to make her regret the decision to go clear across the country for college. But there simply wasn't a way to have both her pack nearby and go to MIT. 

_It's only a few years_ , Lydia told herself. She had plans to graduate early anyway. 

Outside the building, Lydia paused. Sunset was still an hour away, but when she looked up she could see the pale white moon hanging overhead, outlined against the steel-colored sky. Lydia shivered and buttoned up her coat. Maybe it was time to invest in some thicker cotton pantyhose and maybe a pair of fur-lined boots. In Boston, mid-September meant rain and wind and temperatures colder than she was used to. The upside to fall in Boston was that Lydia could literally watch the leaves on the tree turn gold and red and brown while she sat in a café, curling her hands around a steaming mug of spiced tea. 

Lydia smiled and turned her gaze away from the moon. A spiced tea and a call home sounded like an excellent idea.

#

Instead of heading home after classes, Stiles took the way to Derek's place. Derek's car wasn't parked outside the loft, so Stiles drove past it and headed into the woods. If he wasn't at home, Derek was usually at the old Hale house. There were vague plans to rebuild the house, or at least demolish the remains for safety reasons, but so far Derek hadn't been able to make a final decision. In Stiles' opinion brooding about it on the half-rotten porch of the derelict building wasn't exactly conductive to making an objective decision, but that's what Derek liked to do. Although maybe 'liked' wasn't the right word. It seemed more like a punishment to Stiles and it probably was.

When he pulled up at the house, Derek's car was parked in the shadow of the house. Stiles parked next to it and climbed out, knowing that Derek had already heard him. 

Derek hadn't re-painted the door after Scott took his claws to it, and Stiles' heart jumped a little at the sight of the alpha pack's sign underneath the scratched paint. It was the same feeling he got at seeing Aiden and Ethan: that momentary feeling of needing to defend the pack even though the twins were former pack members of his and allies to the joint Hale-McCall pack. He had forgiven them for their part in the events that led to Erica's and Boyd's deaths, but that didn't mean he'd forgotten all about it. 

His dad was incredibly wary of the twins. He couldn't understand how Stiles and the rest of the pack could stand to be in a room with them, but his dad didn't have the same perspective. 

Days after turning into a werewolf, Scott had tried to kill him. He would have, had Stiles not outsmarted him. Derek had tried to kill Lydia and Jackson. Erica could have given him brain damage or a fatal injury when she bashed his head in with a part of his jeep. Allison had kidnapped Boyd and Erica and stabbed Isaac a ridiculous amount of times. Stiles wasn't innocent either. He'd been totally on board with the 'kill the kanima' plot even knowing it was Jackson and that he wasn't doing it on purpose. Aiden and Ethan had been successful in killing someone where the rest of the pack hadn't been, but Stiles figured that if _they_ didn't deserve a second chance, then neither did anyone else. 

"Stiles." 

Stiles jumped and banged his hand on the door, hissing when the skin on his knuckles scraped off on the rough surface. 

"Derek. Hi!" 

"What are you doing here?" 

Derek's tone of voice was resigned rather than annoyed, but with none of the usual amusement in it. Stiles wasn't sure how to deal with that. Should he even mention the state of their relationship? 

"I wanted to talk to you." 

"About what? And don't start with the gremlins again."

"It's not about that," Stiles said. The gremlins were an issue, but he could bring them up at a later point. Right now, Morgan was more important. 

"Then what is it?"

Stiles looked past Derek, but all he could see was burnt wood and some salvaged furniture. "Is Morgan around?"

"Why?" Derek asked. He crossed his arms. "Do you want to talk to him?" 

"No. I was just wondering…" Stiles licked his lips. Derek's gaze didn't waver from his eyes. "How does he know about werewolves?" 

Derek blinked. "What?" 

"I know he's your friend and that he knew you and Laura in New York, but this isn't something you just tell people, not even your friends," Stiles said. "Danny didn't find out until he got directly involved - and by 'got directly involved' I mean 'got possessed by a power-hungry demon'. So how does Morgan know the secret? Is he a werewolf himself? Or part of a pack? Did he get tangled up in something supernatural? Did he know before he met you? Did he find out because of you and Laura? Or after?" 

"I—" Derek blinked a few times in rapid succession. "I don't—" 

"There you are!" 

Derek and Stiles turned. Morgan was standing in the open doorway. He tried to look nonchalant, but his breathing was fast and there were sweat patches on his shirt. He took a few shaky steps towards Derek. "If you ask me to fetch you a drink, you really shouldn't wander off and make me look for you. Here," he said, slapping a water bottle into Derek's hand. "Drink your water." 

Stiles frowned. That was twice now that Morgan had interrupted him and Derek. Almost like he didn't want Stiles to talk to Derek. If he had put some thought into it, Stiles might have come up with a diplomatic way of finding out what the hell was going on. As it was, he simply blurted, "What the hell is going on?" 

Derek raised the water bottle to his mouth and drank the entire thing in three long pulls. It was distracting, but not so distracting that Stiles didn't notice the way Morgan put a hand on Derek's shoulder. 

"Derek is showing me the area," Morgan said, giving Stiles another fake smile. "He thought I'd like to see his childhood home." 

Stiles very much doubted that. "Right."

But instead of showing distress - which in Derek's case meant that he hunched his shoulders and glowered more - Derek looked almost bored, his stance relaxed and his face blank. Something weird was definitely going on. And it definitely had to do with Morgan. 

"Was there something else?" Derek asked. He screwed the lid back into the plastic bottle and then tossed it into a corner of the former living room. 

"No," Stiles said, trying for nonchalant himself. "That pretty much answered my question." 

From the way Morgan looked at him, Stiles managed to pull off nonchalant even less successfully than Morgan had. Stiles didn't care. He needed a plan. But first, he needed to talk to Scott. Again.

#

Scott's bike was gone when Stiles drove past the McCall's place on his way home. Instead of wasting time looking for him, Stiles continued on home and dialed Scott's number.

Scott picked up after the sixth ring. "Stiles! Where are you?" 

"What?" Stiles asked, straining to hear anything besides background noise. Wherever Scott was, it was loud. Stiles caught faint music, the general hubbub of a crowd of talking people and several unidentified noises. "Where are you?" 

"Hang on!" There were some rustling noises and then the background sounds were mostly cut off. "Better now? Stiles?" 

"Yeah, it's better. Where are you?" 

"Where are _you_?" Scott countered. "We're all at the bowling alley." 

"You are?" 

"Yeah," Scott said. "Morgan invited the pack out for a night of fun and— well. Not drinking, obviously." 

"Obviously," Stiles echoed. The blood rushing through his ears sounded overly loud all of a sudden. Stiles pinched himself to keep focused. "Scott, listen to me. I think something is wrong with Morgan." 

"What do you mean? He looked fine five minutes ago." Scott chuckled. "In fact, he's beating us all, even Allison." 

"No, I mean Morgan is what's wrong. Something weird is going on, and it has to do with Morgan." 

There was a moment of silence over the line, the Scott made a doubtful noise. "I don't know, Stiles," he said slowly. "Have you even given him a chance? Yesterday at the pack meeting, you gave him your creepy half-smile whenever he wanted to talk to you and then you left early. You're not even here for pack bowling." 

"No one invited me." 

"Maybe because you didn't exchange phone numbers with Morgan," Scott said. "Maybe he just didn't want to deal with your negativity today."

Stiles sighed. "Maybe you're right and I'm imagining things. But Morgan seriously pings my danger radar. I have a bad feeling about this." 

"I don't know what you want me to say," Scott said, sounding dismayed. "I _like_ Morgan. But you're my best friend."

"Just do me one favor, Scott," Stiles said. "Don't eat or drink anything Morgan gives you." 

"Okay, I can do that." 

"Promise me."

"Okay, I promise," Scott said solemnly. "Oh, hey. I know you weren't invited - which, by the way, totally has to be a misunderstanding - but why don't you come to the bowling alley anyway?"

"I don't know…"

"Come on, it'll be fun. As long as you can stop glaring at Morgan for a few hours."

Stiles winced. "I'm not sure I can." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah," Stiles said. "Look, I don't want to ruin the night for the rest of you. So just stick to your promise and I'll speak to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay."

Stiles heard footsteps start up and then stop again. 

"Hey, Stiles?"

"Yes, Scott?"

"Don't worry so much. It'll be okay." 

"I hope so, Scott. See you tomorrow." 

Stiles ended the call and let himself fall back onto his bed. The temptation to bury his face in his pillow and wallow in self-pity was great. Stiles certainly had ample reason to pity himself. Derek's refusal to acknowledge there was anything between them and the pack's fun night out - without him - were just the tip of the iceberg.

With a sigh, Stiles sat up and looked across the room at his desk. 

Time for more research.

#

Everywhere around her, college students were working on assignments, gossiping or awkwardly sipping their lattes while sitting next to strangers in the overcrowded café. Lydia smiled to herself. She had managed to snag a two-person table in a corner and so far had deflected everyone who even looked like they might be thinking about sitting down in the seat opposite her. She wasn't known as 'the Lydia Martin' around campus yet, but she had definite plans for the near future.

College was different from high school, but in many way it was still the same old. There were the people no one ever talked to - the weird ones whose weirdness surpassed everyone else's quirks and eccentricities - and there were the people that everyone flocked to. Lydia knew exactly on which end of the spectrum she wanted to end up. She didn't have the same mentality she'd had in high school, but that didn't mean she wanted to befriend every loser who made her feel sorry for them. 

Lydia took out her phone and checked Twitter. None of the wolves in the pack used any kind of social media, so Twitter was the human side's way of communication. She'd never admit to it, but using the code phrases that Stiles had insisted on was kind of fun. When the topic of werewolves first came up over Twitter, they'd done what they usually did in public: referred to it as "the furry problem" or "that time of the month" or just called it "the _thing_ ". And while it was cryptic enough to throw of most regular people, hunters would cotton on immediately that they were talking about werewolves. So Stiles had come up with an elaborate set of code phrases to use. She hadn't yet figured out why the codename for Derek was Miguel, and Danny - the only one who seemed to know - never let on. At least Stiles let them keep their user names, though, which was why Lydia still logged on as IAmAScreamer and Allison was still MightyHuntress. Lydia suspected that was mostly because Stiles didn't want to give up being the WolfWhisperer. 

Frowning, Lydia refreshed the page. The last tweet was from two days ago - in terms of the internet, that was a long time. The only other pack communication was one missed call from Stiles, but he hadn't left a message. Still frowning, Lydia pulled on her coat and grabbed her purse. It wasn't unusual for high school friends to lose touch once they headed off to different colleges and different lives, but they weren't just a group of high school friends. They were a pack. For all of them to be completely incommunicado for two days was almost unheard of.

Lydia dialed Stiles' number before she even left the coffee shop, but all she got was his voicemail. She left a short message to call her back "whenever, okay, Stiles? I might need my beauty sleep to look this beautiful and fresh, but I will be pissed if you're all fighting an ogre without telling me about it!" 

Her roommate was out when Lydia got back to the dorm, and she was almost relieved about it. With Shannon here, she would have had to put on a happy front. As it was, Lydia could give in to the worry churning in her stomach and research the best ways to kill an ogre. 

Just in case.

#

Stiles only had one class on Fridays, something he was grateful for no matter what the circumstances. He would be especially grateful the next morning, because after tossing and turning on his bed for two hours, he'd given up on sleep and fired up his laptop. 3 AM on a Friday morning wasn't the ideal time for research, but he managed to compile a list of ways Morgan might be influencing or controlling the pack. Food and drink was right on top of that list - Morgan had made sandwiches for the pack meeting and when it seemed like Stiles was getting through to Derek the day before, he'd interrupted and given Derek something to drink. It had to be a potion or drug.

It had to be.

Derek wasn't himself, that much was obvious. Except… Derek was behaving like Derek circa 2012. It still wasn't right, but for all that it made the alarm bells ring inside Stiles' head, there was also that little voice suggesting that this might be Derek's way of distancing himself from Stiles. Falling back into old patterns to try and keep Stiles at a distance. It wouldn't be the first time that Derek pushed people away because he couldn't deal with his emotions. Every time that little voice threatened to be drowned out by the alarm bells, Stiles remembered Scott. 

Scott had brushed his concerns off in a way that made Stiles doubt himself again. It was obvious that Scott didn't think Morgan was a danger to the pack, but he had listened to Stiles. He hadn't outright dismissed him. For some strange reason that made his brain think that it was more likely that Scott was right and he just hadn't given Morgan a chance yet. Was Derek's behavior really so odd? Was he hallucinating again? There had been a short period of time after the Nemeton fiasco where Stiles had had waking dreams - hallucinations, basically - on top of his daily nightmares. For a while, he had barely slept, and his mind had had the same fuzziness around the edges back then as it did now. Two nights of restless sleep and weird dreams and he was back in one of the darkest times of his life - and he ran with a pack of werewolves that saw freaky stuff pretty much every day (and twice on Sundays). 

This whole back and forth - was something going on or was he imagining things? - wasn't good for his mental or physical health. Doubting his own sanity had brought him to the brink of breaking once. The thought that he might be seeing things that weren't there was enough to make his heart clench painfully and then start thundering in his chest, leaving him breathless. 

None of his online searches had brought up anything on Morgan Fairfax. Stiles had tentative plans to surprise his dad with lunch the next day so that he could make use of some of the resources at the station when his dad wasn't looking. But was he really going to go that far? Just to find out more about one of Derek's friends? 

Stiles groaned and pushed his laptop away from him, closing the lid with a quiet _snick_. Morgan wasn't just an old friend. He couldn't be. Everyone's behavior had done a 180 since Morgan appeared - he was not just imagining that. Maybe Stiles would find out that it didn't have anything to do with Morgan, but _something _fishy was going on in Beacon Hills.__

__Stiles dug his cell phone out of his pocket and unlocked the screen. A notification popped up that he had a voicemail message. He opened the message and listened to Lydia talk about hunting ogres. Shaking his head a little, Stiles chuckled. Ogres. Like that was going to--Stiles blinked and made a mental note to research the possibilities of ogres invading Beacon Hills. The Nemeton was about as useful as it was a nuisance. He wouldn't put it past the old tree to attract an ogre or two._ _

__Stiles scrolled through the list of his photo contacts - everyone was wearing ridiculous hats and sunglasses, as a nod to the werewolves whose eyes wouldn't let Stiles take normal photos of them. Lydia's long red hair was straight in the picture, falling down neatly and evenly around her shoulders. She wore large, very dark sunglasses and a snow white hat that sat at an angle on her head. Her lips were blood red. She looked absolutely amazing._ _

__He hesitated for a moment, his finger hovering over the call button. Lydia's message had said to call her at any time. It wouldn't be the first time she got a 3 AM phone call from him. Stiles sighed. Why couldn't he still be in love with Lydia? Things would be much less confusing for him._ _

__He hit the call button and waited for the call to connect._ _

__"The customer you're trying to reach—"_ _

__Stiles disconnected the call and set his cell phone down on the desk. Without Lydia to brainstorm he'd usually go and talk to his dad. But the mysterious break-ins were keeping his dad at work longer and longer. Since the break-ins usually happened at around midnight, Stiles' dad had arranged to be on the night shift for the week. Stiles approved - the sooner his dad could be at the scene, the fresher the crime scene would be - but it robbed him of one of his sounding boards. He and his dad had always connected through this sort of thing. Solving jigsaw puzzles and small riddles when Stiles was too young for the actual police work. These days they worked together on actual cases - mostly ones with a supernatural edge, but occasionally Stiles would help out with a regular, human crime._ _

__"What do you think you're doing?"_ _

__Stiles jumped and nearly fell off his chair._ _

__Derek was perched on his windowsill. He was hunched over awkwardly to fit in through the window, but the hilarity of the situation was somewhat tempered by Derek's absolutely furious expression._ _

__"What?"_ _

__"Why are you going behind my back?" Derek took a few steps into the room and crossed his arms. "You went and talked to Scott."_ _

__Stiles gave Derek his best 'are you crazy?' look. "Scott is my best friend. I talk to him every day."_ _

__"You told him about this stupid rodent problem that has you so worked up. I told you it was nothing!"_ _

__"Well," Stiles said, "you're wrong about that!"_ _

__Derek glowered at him and Stiles had to beat down the urge to apologize. Even as a human, he felt the pull to obey the alpha. But, thankfully, as a human he could resist and tell Derek when he was unreasonable about something. And the gremlin situation had a definite supernatural air to it._ _

__"I mean it, Derek. Something weird is going on. Don't you see?" Stiles asked. "Look, these are not ordinary break-ins. There was weird plant residue inside the houses that didn't come from any local plants. The houses and even some of the rooms were locked when the people left and they were still locked when they returned, but somehow, everything inside was completely trashed. Don't tell me that's not weird!"_ _

__Derek shrugged. "So it's pixies who are having a little fun. They'll go away on their own once they're bored."_ _

__"It's not pixies." Stiles suppressed an annoyed sigh, but couldn't quite contain the eye roll._ _

__"If that's all," Derek said, shaking his head at Stiles. "I have a meeting with Morgan in thirty minutes."_ _

__"That's the other thing," Stiles blurted before he could stop himself._ _

__"What is?"_ _

__"Morgan," Stiles said. When Derek looked at him questioningly, he elaborated. "A random guy just shows up out of nowhere and nobody thinks that's weird?"_ _

__"He's my friend," Derek said, sounding a little offended. "How is that weird?"_ _

__"How is it not, him showing up like that?" Stiles countered. "And on that day of all days."_ _

__"What does the day have to do with anything?"_ _

__Stiles frowned. He gave Derek an imploring look, but was met with only silence. "Because of, you know. What happened that day. Between us." When Derek still didn't give any indication that he knew what Stiles was talking about, he threw his hands up in defeat. "The kissing, Derek! The kissing you and I did that night!"_ _

__So much for subtlety._ _

__"Nothing happened, Stiles," Derek said, his tone as flat as on the day they met._ _

__"But we--"_ _

__"Nothing," Derek said, slowly, "happened."_ _

__Stiles could feel a lump rising in his throat and he resolutely swallowed it down. This was all Morgan's doing. Stiles had seen Derek let people down gently, and this definitely wasn't it. This wasn't Derek. This wasn't the same guy he'd had dinner with on Tuesday. This wasn't the guy who'd shyly darted in for another kiss before walking back to his car._ _

__Derek's mouth twisted into a sort of regretful smile. "Morgan said you had a problem with him. He said you were jealous, but I didn't believe him." Derek shrugged. "I guess he was right."_ _

__"None of us have even heard of the guy," Stiles said, but it sounded like a petulant comeback even to his own ears._ _

__"I don't like talking about my past," Derek said. "Morgan is my friend. He's staying with me until he finds his own place. If your little crush is going to interfere--"_ _

__"My _crush_?" Stiles shook his head. "My crush is not even the issue here. It's the full moon in three days and I--" _ _

__"About that," Derek interrupted, his face blank._ _

__Stiles frowned. "About what?"_ _

__"You're not coming to _Ellie's_ on Tuesday morning," Derek said. "And don't come by for the meeting on Sunday. In fact, don't come by the apartment any more." _ _

__"What--" Stiles swallowed, a cold feeling settling in his bones. "What are you saying?"_ _

__"Stop interfering in pack matters." Derek said. "They don't concern you any more." He stared at Stiles for a moment, then turned and headed towards the window._ _

__"Derek, wait!" Stiles caught Derek's sleeve in his hand and tugged at it, trying to get Derek to turn back. He didn't expect Derek to snarl at him and push him back with enough force that he stumbled into his desk, hissing in pain as his hip collided with the sharp corner. Stiles put out his hand to steady himself and inadvertently sent his mug with pens and pencils tumbling to the floor, its clattering muted by the carpet._ _

__Before Stiles could process what was going on, Derek grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against the nearest wall. The force of it knocked the back of Stiles' head into the wall, eliciting another pained hiss._ _

__Over the years, Stiles had been afraid of Derek on numerous occasions. Their very first meeting in the woods had been intimidating, even if Derek hadn't done anything besides scowl at Stiles and Scott and tell them to stay off his property. He'd even made a "get off my lawn" joke later. But Derek could be terrifying. Any of the werewolves could be, simply for what they were. If you were human in a wolf pack, you learned to be afraid of the claws and the fangs and the extra speed and strength. But you also learned to trust your pack, to trust them to protect you and to trust them not to hurt you. Stiles learned to be afraid of their potential more than the actual werewolves._ _

__That, however, didn't help him reign in his fear as Derek pressed him against the wall, one arm tight across his throat. The position forced Stiles to tilt his head up if he wanted to breathe, and he was very aware of all the implication of baring his throat to a pissed off werewolf. Derek's eyes were glowing red, and for the first time since Derek became the alpha, they reminded Stiles of Peter's alpha eyes. They were void of compassion or patience. They were, in fact, blank of anything that wasn't animal instinct._ _

__Derek's other hand, splayed over Stiles' sternum, was more than enough to keep him effectively pinned to the wall. Stiles tried pushing back against Derek's arm, but his efforts were futile. He didn't have enough leverage to wind out of Derek's grasp, and he lacked the strength to throw him off._ _

__"Keep out of pack business," Derek said, his tone of voice calm, almost serene, "and stay away from my pack."_ _

__For a second, Stiles thought it was another illusion. That his shallow breathing and the pressure against his chest had caused him to black out for a second. But Derek's hard stare was real. Derek restricting his air intake was real._ _

__There was a hot pain in Stiles' chest a moment later and he gasped - or tried to. He ended up dizzy and half passed out from a combination of pain and the inability to breathe properly._ _

__"If I find you near any of us, I'll be back," Derek said._ _

__Then he was gone._ _

__Stiles' knees buckled and he fell forward, gasping for breath. His vision cleared and he could see the spilled pencils and pens. One of the pen caps had come loose and the pen, an old-fashioned fountain pen, had leaked some black ink onto his gray-blue carpet. Stiles waited a moment longer and then sat up, gingerly rubbing his neck. He might not even end up with a bruise. Derek hadn't pressed too hard - just hard enough to make it difficult to breathe._ _

__Stiles gaze fell into a few dark spots directly in front of him. They were still wet, almost circular and a deep, dark red. Blood._ _

__Looking down, Stiles pulled at his shirt._ _

__There were five slashes in the fabric of his shirt, two of them right over the printed on arc reactor that glowed in the dark. The shirt was a write-off. Stiles pulled it up and looked at his chest. They looked like inverted exclamation points. Five puncture wounds corresponding to Derek's fingertips were spaced out over his sternum, each of them with a shallow slash going down towards Stiles' stomach, like Derek had dug his claws in and then, to make a point, had dragged his claws down a couple of inches to make sure Stiles got the message. Derek's claws hadn't pierced his skin deeply enough to do permanent damage but deeply enough to bleed. The wound from Derek's thumb was a little larger than the others. It was the only one Stiles thought might leave a scar._ _

__They even didn't hurt. Mostly, Stiles just felt numb._ _

__Adrenaline, probably._ _

__Or just the crippling thought of being without his pack - without his alpha, without what had become his _family_ \- for the first time in over a year. _ _

____

#

It took Stiles a long time to pick himself up off the floor and clean the slashes in his chest. The sting of the disinfectant shook him out of his stupor. Derek attacking him like that only proved that he wasn't in his right mind. Derek already had a mountain of guilt on his shoulders that he carried everywhere. He wouldn't voluntarily add to that.

Derek attacking him - a human pack member - meant that things were getting worse. And fast. Stiles absently pressed his hand to the bandage, trying to use the pain to help him focus. 

It didn't work. His sleep-deprived brain was a jumbled mess full of panic, theories and distractions. After what had happened, Stiles knew he wouldn't even get a few hours of peaceful sleep. 

His dad had dragged him to a doctor the last time he'd suffered from daily nightmares and fear-induced insomnia. The sleeping pills were heavy duty, guaranteed to make him drop like a log and sleep for at least eight hours, possibly longer. He'd taken them only a handful of times, wary of the way they made him completely unaware of what was happening around him. Being knocked out like that was dangerous even under normal circumstances, and these were not normal circumstances. 

But if we wanted to keep researching at full capacity and not pass out from exhaustion at the worst possible moment, he needed to give his body a chance to rest. Sleeping a total of seven hours over three and a half days wasn't ideal if all he had to deal with were classes and a pack of unruly werewolves. It was completely unacceptable when dealing with an unknown threat _and_ a pack of potentially hostile werewolves. 

Stiles swallowed two of the pink-colored pills and then lined his room with mountain ash before climbing into bed.

#

Stiles pulled up at the vet clinic in the early evening. After taking the sleeping pills, he'd slept for close to twelve hours, completely missing his Friday class.

He parked his jeep and looked around the parking lot. He didn't even know if Scott or Isaac were working today, but neither Scott's bike nor Isaac beat-up old Pontiac were there. Stiles sighed. It would have been nice to get another chance to talk to Scott one-on-one. Especially since Scott had stopped replying to his text messages. 

Deaton was in his office, twirling a pen in his hands as he read over a file. He looked up when Stiles stormed into his office. 

"Mr. Stilinski." 

"You have to help me," Stiles said. "Something is wrong with the pack. Very wrong." 

Deaton raised his eyebrows. "I spoke to Scott yesterday; he seemed fine." 

"Yeah, no. They're not fine, none of them are." 

Deaton pointed at the chair opposite his desk in invitation. Stiles glanced at it. The chair had appeared in the office a few years ago and Stiles had often speculated that Deaton had put it there because of him. Specifically because Stiles liked to pace when he was thinking or trying to focus - the added movement helped him focus his thoughts - and Deaton disliked that habit. Stiles didn't care. He disliked Deaton's cryptic- sometimes borderline sadistically so - instructions and comments, but that didn't stop Deaton from talking about the moon and the tides when Stiles asked about the full wolf transformation. 

Deaton sighed when Stiles ignored the chair and started pacing. 

"So about two days ago, this guy showed up. Not even someone we know, just a random guy, right there at the pack meeting. And everyone is treating him like he's pack, like he's been there forever. It's weird. It's not right. He's doing something to the pack and I can't get through to them. I need you to get them away from this guy." 

"You are talking about Morgan, I presume?" 

Stiles' stomach drops. "Oh, no. Not you, too." 

"Not me what?" 

"Don't tell me he whammied you, too! Seriously, if you start singing this guy's praises, I'll stab myself with your letter opener or something." 

"I am not under a spell, Stiles." Deaton's frown looked at the same time troubled and slightly amused. "Derek and Morgan were here yesterday." 

"They were? Why didn't you say so? Why didn't you do anything?" 

"What was I supposed to have done?"

"Um… maybe lift whatever enchantment or spell Morgan has placed on the pack?" Stiles spluttered. 

"I didn't detect any spells." 

"Trust me, they're there. Like I said, the guy came out of nowhere, moved in with Derek and took over the pack. It's not normal." 

"Ah."

"What, 'ah'?" 

"Derek told me that he knew Morgan in New York--" 

"Well, yeah," Stiles interrupted. "But--"

"--and that you might be upset by his rejection of your advances," Deaton continued smoothly

Stiles closed his mouth with a snap. When Deaton put it like that, it sounded bad. Like Stiles was just a jealous kid whose crush didn't like him back. "That has nothing to do with it. This is a legitimate concern. As the future emissary of the Hale pack, I--"

Deaton pursed his lips. "Hm." 

"What?" 

"When Derek introduced Morgan to me, he said I no longer needed to educate you in the ways of the druids because Morgan would be taking over emissary duties for the Hale pack." 

"That--that's not. No. Okay? Just no. Derek isn't thinking straight." 

Deaton sighed. "Stiles. The alpha has clearly stated that you are no longer in his pack and that Morgan will be his emissary in your stead. He was very clear about that." 

"HE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT HE'S SAYING!" Stiles exploded. "Morgan put a spell on him. Made him drink the special kool-aid. Used the force on him. A fucking Vulcan mind meld. I don't know. But he did something to Derek and the others and I need your help to figure it out!" 

"I'm sorry, but I can't help you. You are no longer associated with the pack. There is nothing more that I can teach you, and - without any pack ties - I can't tell you of pack secrets. In fact, I thought that was why you were here. There is nothing I can do for you."

"Even if they're under mind-control?" Stiles asked. "Just because Derek's mouth said Morgan is in doesn't mean the rest of his body is on board with that. That's not how informed consent works, Deaton."

"Unfortunately, that's not quite true in this case. Intent is a powerful thing, but sometimes words are just as strong, if not stronger." Deaton sighed. "I wish I could help you, Stiles, but I'm bound by my oath." 

Stiles pressed his lips together. Sometimes - more often than not, in fact - it seemed like Deaton hid behind his oath and his quest for the 'greater good' to succeed. Well, Stiles had seen Hot Fuzz. That hadn't ended well for the pursuers of the greater good, if such a thing even existed. What good was Deaton's balance when he _knew_ Derek and his pack were being mind-whammied by Morgan and he still did nothing?

"This is bullshit," Stiles said. "You oath also says you have to protect the family and the pack. Allowing an outsider to come in and take over without even questioning it for five minutes, that's not taking care of the pack. That's abandoning the pack." 

Deaton gave him a hard look, but said nothing. 

Stiles shook his head. He started pulling his books from the shelves, stuffing into his backpack whatever fit and piling the rest up in a neat stack. Then he moved on to the few other bits and pieces of magical paraphernalia he kept at the vet's office for their lessons. 

"Stiles."

"No. You're backing up the wrong person and you know it! Helping the wrong person -- that's almost worse than not helping at all."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Stiles." 

"No," Stiles said. He put on his backpack and picked up the stack of books. "No, but you will be."

#

"Stiles?"

Stiles stared blindly at his laptop screen. He had spent the last few hours since leaving the clinic researching mind control spells and gremlins, and he hadn't gotten anywhere on either front. It was frustrating to have so much information at his fingertips, and yet none of it quite fit. 

His dad rapped his knuckles on the wooden door jamb to Stiles' room. Stiles jumped.

"Son? Are you okay?" 

Stiles sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I'm fine." 

"Uh-huh." His dad didn't sound convinced. "You look better than yesterday, anyway. Sleeping pill help any?"

Stiles shrugged. "I'm awake and don't feel like I should be asleep. It's a step forward. You about to head in to work?" 

"Yeah." His dad hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the room and sat down on the foot of the bed. Stiles swiveled the chair around to face him. "Look, Stiles, I know I asked you for help with the break-ins, but I didn't mean for you to work yourself into the ground like that."

Stiles blinked. His dad thought— 

Stiles burst out laughing. 

His dad didn't join in. Instead, the lines on his face just got more pronounced as his frown grew deeper. 

Some of his laughs sounded more like sobs to Stiles' ears, but it took a few minutes until he was able to stop. He ran a hand over his chest, checking to see if the bandage under his shirt was still in place. "Sorry, Dad. It's just—I can't believe I haven't even told you!" 

"What's going on, Stiles?" 

"Something big," Stiles said. "It all started on… well. Tuesday evening, I think. After Derek left here. I'm not sure exactly when because Derek and the rest of the pack are being mind controlled, so I can't exactly ask them."

His dad checked his watch and reached for the radio clipped to his shoulder. "Dispatch, this is Sheriff Stilinski." 

There was a quick burst of static, then Janine said over the radio, "Here dispatch. Go ahead." 

"Something came up. I'll be a little late coming in," he said. "Ask George to stay until I get there. If he can't, call me back."

"Copy that, Sheriff." 

His dad focused his gaze back on Stiles. "Start from the top. Tell me everything."

#

His dad veto Stiles' idea of going to the station with him. Things had calmed down at the police station. No unexplained deaths or strings of animal attacks for the last nine months or so. But that didn't mean his dad wanted Stiles to come in and stir up old memories.

"Look," he said, "I know that you kids these days think you're the best and brightest, but I was actually trained to use this software and any other means at my disposal." He gave Stiles a sideways glance. "And this way I won't have to worry about you breaking any more laws." 

Stiles tried to look affronted but couldn't keep the grin off his face. 

His dad hugged him, letting Stiles cling to him for longer than they usually hugged. "Keep your head up, son. We'll figure it out." 

Stiles smiled gratefully and turned back to his research.

#

Having slept through most of Friday should have meant that Stiles would be wide awake while his dad was at work. After a few hours in front of the computer, however, Stiles found himself drifting off. When he woke up the next morning, his dad was already back home.

Stiles poured himself some cereal and joined his dad at the table. His dad had bags under his eyes, but there was a half empty, still steaming mug of coffee next to him. The stacks of files around him meant that he was settling in to do a few more hours of work. Stiles didn't have the heart to scold his dad for eating a greasy bacon sandwich when he was part of the reason for his dad's extra work.

His dad glanced up when Stiles sat down across from him and reached for the nearest file. "Good, you're up," he said. He took the file out of Stiles' hands before he could open it and replaced it with another. "You want this one. Everything the computer had on Morgan Fairfax."

Stiles frowned. There wasn't much in the file. It confirmed his own findings that Morgan Fairfax didn't actually exist. New were the handful of grainy photographs and a couple of 'person of interest' notices from various police stations around the country issued from that name, but half of them didn't even look like the Morgan he knew. 

"The guy you described doesn't legally exist, at least not that I could find," his dad said. "Several people with the name Morgan Fairfax popped up in my searches, but none of them seem to be your Morgan. I found a few reports that match his description, but I couldn't find any proof that they're all the same guy. Now did I find any connection to Derek Hale, the Hale family or anyone else from Beacon Hills. One thing though: the first name seems to be real enough - it came up several times - but his last name keeps changing. No clues which one's his real last name." 

"Hmm." The news that Morgan did in fact not officially exist wasn't much of a surprise. There was still a tiny sliver of doubt in his mind - Derek had patches in his official file that were a complete blank. So did a few of the other werewolves. If Morgan was a werewolf or some kind of supernatural creature, his human existence could be littered with unexplainable stuff that would be ignored or misinterpreted by humans. But the larger part of Stiles' brain told him that this was simply the confirmation he needed to prove that Morgan was not who he said he was.

"I should have a little more for you soon, though," his dad continued. "I sent Morgan's picture up to a few buddies of mine, one of them works on a federal level. Maybe he can do something with it." 

Stiles frowned. "Dad?" 

"Yeah?" 

"How did you get Morgan's picture?"

His dad swallowed the last bite of his sandwich. "He stopped by earlier today." 

Stiles froze. He paged through the collection of grainy, low-resolution pictures until he hit a sepia-colored print out of Morgan, with his current hair style, standing in the reception area of the Beacon Hills Sheriff's station. "And?"

"And nothing. He made up some excuse about wanting to get a California license now that he moved here, and I pointed him to the DMV." 

"Did you eat or drink anything he gave you?" 

His dad sighed in resignation. "He brought in a plate of cookies." 

"Dad!" 

"Oh, come on! One cookie won't kill me." 

"It's not about that - what if Morgan is using a potion? What if he dosed you up?" 

"I feel fine, Stiles." 

"Don't eat or drink anything else he gives you. Maybe it helps that you know he's not who he says he is, but…" Stiles shrugged. He still didn't know what, exactly, Morgan was doing to control the pack. His dad could be _infected_ , for lack of a better word. If he was, it was too late to worry about it now. He needed a break from Morgan and his stupid face.

"Is the rest of the stuff on the gremlin break-ins?" 

His dad nodded. 

Stiles closed the file on Morgan and snatched up the nearest report. His brain was filled to the brim with facts about supernatural creatures. It was about time he found the one that caused these break-ins.

#

Lydia closed the book on mountain trolls she'd been leafing through and sighed. Instead of a relaxing Saturday morning dedicated to her weekly beauty regimen, followed by a light lunch and some shopping, Lydia had felt the urge to do research on various supernatural creatures that might or might not be attacking Beacon Hills.

It wasn't a very calming thought that she was so involved in the pack that she worried after only a couple of days of no direct contact. That it drove her to flipping through her compendiums and the beastiary on the off chance that she might soon need the info on one of these random creatures was completely unacceptable. 

Taking a deep break, Lydia pushed the mountain troll encyclopedia to the far edge of her desk and covered it with one of her textbooks. Her roommate was great about not sticking her nose into Lydia's things, but a little paranoia never killed anyone. 

Her cell phone was on the desk next to her arm and she unlocked the screen with a flick of her thumb. She tried calling Allison first, then skipped Scott and Isaac when Allison didn't answer. None of the wolves picked up the phone, and the call to Derek went to voicemail straight away. Lips pursed in annoyance, Lydia dialed Stiles' number and listened to it ring again and again until a computerized voice told her that the customer was unavailable but would be notified via text message. 

Tapping her fingernails on the cheap wooden desk, Lydia went over her options. She could try calling them later, but that wouldn't stop her from worrying. Opting to stay out of whatever was going on was pretty much a non-option. She was part of the pack. Whatever was going on with them concerned her already. Lydia nodded to herself. Option three it was. 

Picking up the phone again, Lydia checked for outgoing flights to California.

#

That night, Stiles stood at his window - lined with mountain ash until further notice - and watched his dad drive off to work. He turned his gaze to the sky. The moon was almost full. Only two more nights before the full moon would rise over the forest. Full moons were the time for a lot of rituals. Considering that Morgan had gained control of a werewolf pack in the week before the full moon, it stood to reason that he wanted them for something specific.

Too bad that Stiles still had no clue what that was. 

He picked up the nearest book on counter spells for mind control. He'd brought it with him from Deaton's the day before. Frowning, Stiles tapped his thumb against the book's cover. That was another thing that bothered him. Deaton's acceptance of Morgan seemed off. Stiles had been far too angry to see it at the time, but even though Deaton wasn't Derek's greatest fan - or even Stiles' - he did think of Scott as something like a son. A favorite nephew at the very least. Even if he didn't care about Derek or Stiles or the rest of the pack, he did care about Scott. 

Could Deaton be under Morgan's spell, too? Deaton was more paranoid than Stiles in some ways. He had built large parts of his clinic out of mountain ash. Every room was marked with protective runes and staffed with magical weapons. But he wasn't all-knowing or invincible. He'd been outsmarted and taken by surprise before. If Morgan was good enough to bring Deaton under his control--

But why wasn't Stiles under his spell as well? None of it made any sense. 

There was, of course, the other explanation: that Deaton knew and approved of Morgan's plans or simply didn't care enough to do anything about it. Stiles didn't really want to think about it. According to Deaton, Stiles had more than enough raw power. He could shape spells with his thoughts alone. But he lacked focus. Stiles had laughed in Deaton's face at the time, but - he thought - not unkindly. That he suffered from a lack of focus wasn't exactly news to Stiles. He usually made up for it with ridiculous amounts of - sometimes unnecessary and irrelevant - knowledge and very good - sometimes frankly disturbingly good - timing. 

Four more hours of research meant that Stiles was familiar with a dozen general mind control counter spells. Now all he had to do was find out which spell Morgan was using and he could free his pack. In order to do that, he might eventually have to give up the safety of his house and go directly to the source. Being cooped up like this was already wearing on Stiles. Nervous tics and compulsory pacing were perhaps the most obvious signs of his unrest, but they were not the only symptoms of his growing need to do something more palpable than research. Usually he wouldn't hesitate to jump into the fray without a second thought, but usually he also had an entire wolf pack waiting in the wings to back him up. If he faced Morgan unprepared and without a basic knowledge of the extent of Morgan's abilities, it would likely only make things worse than they already were. 

Stiles stopped in his pacing and threw the book he'd been skimming onto his bed. He stretched gingerly, careful not to pull on the slowly healing claw wounds on his chest. The smaller of the wounds had already scabbed over and started itching. Stiles pressed a hand to the bandage and gently rubbed against it. The slight pain was enough to dull the persistent itch for a moment. One more night, and Stiles would be able to forgo the bandage on the wound. Perhaps he'd leave it for another day or two, though. Less temptation to pick at the scabs in order to get rid of the itch. 

His phone ringing startled Stiles. He dropped his hand from his chest and, in his haste to get to the phone, tripped over a pair of sneakers left where he'd toed them off the day before. He nearly crashed into the nearest wall. Stiles ignored the way the movement pulled at the scabbed over slashes on his chest and grabbed his phone off the bedside table. He was surprised at how disappointed he was to see his dad's name on the display rather than Derek's or Lydia's or Scott's.

"I got something on the gremlins," his dad said by way of a greeting. His dad didn't always bother with social niceties, something he and Stiles had in common. "Well, I think I might have something on them," he amended a moment later. 

"Another break-in?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah. Nice house on Pine Crescent, back facing the woods. They have a large backyard, too, for their two Great Danes." 

"Dog door?" 

"Dog door," his dad confirmed. "Here's the good part: the owners heard about all the break-ins in town. One of the other victims is on the same bowling team as our current victim, and he had trouble getting his insurance company to accept his claim since nothing was stolen and a break-in couldn't be proved beyond the shadow of doubt." 

Stiles snorted. "What? Did they say he wrecked his kitchen himself?"

"Something like that. The dog could have done it, according to the insurance investigators. Never mind that the victim says his dog was chained up outside. Anyway, the owner didn't want to fall victim of the insurance company's tricks if they couldn't prove a break-in had happened, so they secured the dog door and put up a nannny cam. I have video footage of the break-in." 

"Do you want me to come to the station?" 

"Yes, but don't come empty-handed. There's a couple of files on the desk in my room. They're cold cases. Just pick one and bring it over." 

"Got it. See you in ten." 

"If you're here in ten, I'll write you a speeding ticket myself." 

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Twenty, then." 

"See you then."

"Bye, Dad." 

Stiles hung up and put on the sneakers he'd stumbled over earlier. There was a mayo stain on his t-shirt, but if he did up a couple of buttons on the plaid shirt, no one would see. There wasn't much Stiles could do about the bloodshot eyes or the dark shadows under them, but he splashed some water on his face and sprayed on another layer of deodorant so that he at least smelled okay. 

Stiles took a quick glance at all the files on his dad's desk and then picked the one about an unsolved break-in at a shop downtown. 

Stiles was already two miles down the road when he realized how fast he was going. He eased off the gas and concentrated on driving only the slightest bit above the speed limit. His dad probably hadn't been kidding about the speeding ticket. 

The front desk was unoccupied when Stiles got there. He resisted the urge to sneak past and head straight for his dad's office. Instead, he tried to play the bridal march on the bell on the counter. 

"Stiles." 

Stiles looked up. "Hey, Aaron." 

Aaron was one of the new deputies. New was technically a misnomer - Aaron had been working in the Sheriff's office since Matt's attack on the station. Two and a half years wasn't exactly new anymore, but most people still made the distinction between the officers who'd been there before - not that many, only three besides his dad - and the ones who'd been hired after. Aaron's smooth, round face and his usual, bright smile made it even easier to call him a new deputy. He barely even looked old enough to graduate high school, never mind college or the police academy. 

"What can I do for you, Stiles? Business or personal?"

"Little bit of both. My dad's waiting for this file. He left it at home when he went in. He asked me to bring it over."

Aaron held out his hand. "Sure. I'll bring it to his office." 

Stiles shook his head. "It's been way too long since I inspected his office. I need to go in myself." 

"I don't know, Stiles," Aaron said, shifting from one foot to the other. "You know the new regulations say only officers, witnesses and criminals go into the back." 

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "I'm gonna need you to find his secret stash of whatever greasy, fatty, unhealthy stuff he has squirreled away in his office, then. At his last check-up, the doctor made that noise when he looked at dad's blood test results. That 'hmm' noise that doctor's make when they're trying to think of a way to tell you you have cancer or diabetes or something equally as bad. And if my dad doesn't stick to his diet voluntarily, I'm just gonna have to make him." 

Aaron sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Fine. But if anyone asks, you sneaked in." 

"Deal," Stiles agreed. He walked past the counter and down the hallway, heading directly to his dad's office. The bullpen was mostly deserted. Most of the night shift officers were out on patrol, with only Andrea holding down the fort back here. Stiles waved at her, but didn't stop to chat. He knocked on his dad's office door and said, loudly, "Dad! I got the file you wanted!" 

"Come in!" his dad's voice came through the door. 

Stiles entered the office and closed the door behind him, glad that his dad had already closed the blinds at an earlier point. He threw the file on the desk and stepped up next to his dad. His dad's computer screen showed the frozen image of someone's kitchen. The camera was pointed down, probably from a table or kitchen counter, at a back door with a large dog door cut into it. There was a piece of wire mesh nailed over the flap, effectively locking the door. On the floor next to the door were two dog bowls, one filled with water, the other empty. The empty bowl said 'Rover' in cursive letters on the front. 

"I've already watched this four times, but I can't find anything useful on it," his dad said. "Here, see for yourself." He hit the space bar on the keyboard and the video started playing. 

The quality wasn't the best; the footage was slightly grainy and it wasn't in color, but the image was clear enough. 

For roughly forty seconds, nothing happened. Then the flap on the dog door moved. Nothing happened to the mesh or the rest of the door. It could have been a gust of wind moving the flap. It happened three move times before the fun started in earnest. Suddenly, cereal boxes and tin cans came flying into view. From somewhere outside the camera's range, someone dropped a pot full of stew or leftovers onto the floor. The pot's lid came loose and food splattered all over the floor and the nearby cupboards. For the next three minutes, this continued without pause. Empty containers were dropped onto the floor. An empty cookie carton joined the cereal boxes and then one of the cupboards in sight of the camera opened. Whoever the gremlins were, they had the ability to become or appear invisible. Invisibility thinned out the list of suspects, but there were still too many magical creatures with that ability to narrow it down to just one or two creatures.

A moment later, the dog flap moved again. Four times, just liked at the beginning of the surveillance tape. His dad froze the image on the screen and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his neck with one hand and gestured at the screen with his other. "That's it. Nothing more on it afterward until the owners come home and find their kitchen completely trashed. There's nothing to see. Whoever ransacked the kitchen was off camera and the only clue we have is a cupboard that opens by itself." He sighed. "I shouldn't have called you until after I watched the video. Sorry to waste your time." 

Stiles leaned forward, squinting at the screen. "Not a waste of time," he said absently. "Do you see that?" He pointed at the puddle of spilled food. Without color, it was next to impossible to figuring out what had been in the pot that their intruders had dropped. The consistency was that of mud, wet but not too runny. It might have been stew or a sauce for something. 

"What?" His dad leaned forward. "Do you mean that smudge in the sauce?" 

"Yeah. Only it's not a smudge." Stiles grinned. "It's a footprint."

#

It took a lot of fast talking and promises of calling the second he found out for sure what kind of creature their gremlins actually were, but eventually his dad let Stiles go home for more research instead of keeping him where he could be more easily supervised. On the whole, it was great that his dad knew about the supernatural now. It helped that Stiles didn't have to lie anymore - about most things, anyway. One aspect he didn't like was the fact that his dad demanded to know all the details. If he came home with a scratch or a bruise, even if it was just something he could have gotten by walking into a door (it happened) or being tackled on the lacrosse field, his dad didn't leave it alone until he had the full story. If he went out at night, his dad wanted to know where he was going, who he was meeting, and when he'd be back. That sort of thing might be standard for other teenagers, but Stiles had enjoyed a mostly supervision-free life for years. Adjusting to his dad going into overprotective mode hadn't been easy. Stiles had eventually found a sort of middle ground - he omitted the small things and only told his dad about all the big things… after they'd happened.

Stiles didn't need to check his books to know what kind of creature they were dealing with. The last time they'd had gremlins - small, havoc-causing, night-dwelling creatures - in town, Stiles and Lydia had done an extensive search on pixies, gnomes, goblins and all the other small, havoc-causing, night-dwelling creatures that existed. Last time the gremlins turned out to be a subspecies of pixies that were rebelling against their queen. This time, it looked like they were dealing with a subspecies of gnomes called kobaloi. They were originally from Greece, but these American kobaloi had little in common with their Old World ancestors. 

Their feet had, unlike the feet of most gnomes or goblins, only three toes, making their footprints easily recognizable. Their small stature meant that a person could easily hold off one of them, but as soon as there were more than three or four in the mix, it got a lot more difficult. Stiles had counted four of them in the video, and he could handle four of them without a problem. It was absolutely unnecessary to involve his dad at all. 

Out of habit, Stiles parked at the old Hale house. It drove a short pang through his heart to know that the pack was together somewhere else, probably with Morgan, but he shoved it aside. The kobaloi were the first problem he'd deal with. Maybe the distraction would help clear his mind and give him new direction in his search for the way Morgan was controlling his pack. 

Without any friends with sensitive wolf noses to lead the way, Stiles had to pick a direction based on nothing more than gut feeling and basic extrapolation. The kobaloi weren't usually found close to human settlements. That they'd come into town at all was either the influence of the Nemeton or a lack of food. The size of the preserve argued against a lack of food, so the Nemeton it was. 

Stiles sighed. "Sure, middle of the night, heading into the deepest part of the woods," he muttered. "What can possibly go wrong?" 

He wasn't actually afraid of the woods. He had tons of memories tied in with the woods - werewolves and abject terror only made up a small portion of them. But not being afraid of the woods didn't mean Stiles wasn't afraid of any creatures that might be waiting for him _inside_ the woods. He didn't necessarily want to wander around in them after dark, even though his life sometimes didn't give him much choice. At least the moon was nearly full. Adding the moonlight to the shine of his flashlight - he always carried at least one and had more in the Jeep - was enough to keep him from stumbling every few feet. The fact that there was nearly no undergrowth in parts of the forest also helped. 

Like some species of elves and other small, wood-dwelling creatures, the kobaloi lived in caves. Where no naturally occurring caves offered themselves up as available living spaces, they used hollowed out trees or built their own rabbit warren like underground structures. The kobaloi could turn invisible from human eyes, and their homes were near impossible to find. Having the Nemeton nearby actually helped in that regard. It drew in supernatural creatures, sometimes without conscious thought on their part. He might not be able to see the kobaloi or find their home unless he literally stumbled into it, but he knew where to start. 

Ever since he'd started actively training his powers, focusing and channeling them in a more formal way, he had become more sensitive to magical currents. He could feel it when he was in the presence of someone or something powerful, magically speaking. He could feel shifts in power levels and detect the energy that a cursed object gave off. The Nemeton was a regular beacon of magical energy. Once he was close enough, Stiles could have found his way through the trees without the GPS in his phone. It was almost like an additional sense. His other, regular senses warned him to stay back whenever he got too close to the powerful tree stump, and yet his sixth sense always made him shiver in anticipation. 

While other supernatural creatures and those touched by the supernatural wouldn't have a clue what was waiting for them behind the trees, Stiles knew exactly what to expect. He'd been here often enough to know that the tranquil feeling that settled on someone once they stepped in range of the Nemeton was a lie. It was a method the tree used to keep people docile to siphon off more power. Scott, when he'd learned of that aspect of the Nemeton, had tried to get them to rip out the stump and burn it, but Stiles had been able to convince him that would be a very bad idea. The tree wasn't evil. It took power, but it also gave power. In order to get a reward, you had to offer up a sacrifice. That's what the Nemeton was about: balance. Past and present, present and future. Light and dark, give and take. The problem was that the power the Nemeton gave off was so pure and uncorrupted that a lot of people couldn't take it. That was why it was so dangerous. That was why it needed a guardian. That was why the town needed the pack. 

Stiles stopped, pulling his mental shields up until the pull of the Nemeton wasn't even a whisper in his mind any more. The forest was absolutely silent apart from his breathing. Unnaturally silent. Animals tended to avoid the area so close to the Nemeton. Sometimes he'd see a fox sitting on the stump, taking a nap, or a few crows sitting on the low-hanging branches of the surrounding trees, but they always left whenever Stiles got close. 

Stiles frowned. The forest was silent around him, but he could hear a whisper. A faint sound, like a conversation heard through a thick wall. He could hear voices, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. Slowly, he crept forward, then stopped and switched off his flashlight. Most supernatural creatures had the advantage of enhanced senses, so they'd hear or smell him before he even knew they were there. But the kobaloi didn't have enhanced senses. Leaving his light on would be like jumping up and down waving a huge neon flag, shouting, "here, here!" 

It took several seconds before Stiles could make out the general shapes of the trees around him, and another minute before he felt sure he could walk on without walking into the nearest tree and getting a mouthful of tree bark. 

Following the sound of the whispering, Stiles ended up at the clearing where the Nemeton stood. Over the last few years, it had changed from a barren, mostly dead landscape into something a lot more alive. Instead of a dead dirt ground, green grass covered the earth. The wildflowers that grew here during the summer had disappeared by now, and the trees surrounding the area had lost their leaves, leaving the grass covered in a wet layer of brown, yellow and reddish leaves. The Nemeton itself was still the same, with one small addition: a small sapling had started to grow in the crack that ran through the middle of the stump. It had first appeared a few weeks after his, Scott and Allison's sacrifice and it had grown steadily every since, seemingly unaffected by the seasons. The sapling was almost as tall as Stiles, with a slender trunk not quite the circumference of a broom stick. 

The sapling wasn't a replacement Nemeton - it wasn't there to grow anew what was already there. Instead it was merely a sign of the new life that had been breathed into the Nemeton by their sacrifice. It gave the tree back the access to its power. 

The whispering that had led him here came from the kobaloi. As Stiles had expected, they were drawn to the Nemeton and its power. 

The kobaloi were of average size for gnomes. Most of them seemed to be no larger than up to his knees. They were a variety of colors, some darker, almost black, some more earth-colored while others had tan, sand-colored skin. Unlike a lot of the European gnome species, the kobaloi weren't dressed. They were dancing, naked, around the Nemeton stump. Their singing, only audible as whispering at this distance, had an eerie, other-worldly quality to it. The kobaloi were bald, and - unlike gremlins - had small, shell-shaped ears. 

Their wild jumping and dancing didn't make it easy to get a head count. Stiles couldn't be sure they were all in the clearing, either. But there were far more than just the four kobaloi he'd been expecting. He could count at least seventeen of the little gnomes, and while he might be okay on his own against four or five of them, a whole gaggle of gnomes was not an easy mark. He needed back-up. 

For a second, Stiles thought about calling his dad. But two against seventeen or more kobaloi wasn't much better odds than one against seventeen, and as much as his dad wanted to be involved in things, he still thought too much like a cop. He'd try and reason with them or try and use his gun - neither option would work. The talking because you always needed a bargaining chip when dealing with gnomes, and the gun because they could turn invisible if they wanted to - what use was a gun if you couldn't be sure to hit anything? The best weapon was something short to mid-range, like a club that you could swipe around you. Anything close by would be hit. 

Another great weapon were claws, obviously. 

Moving back a little so that the shine of his cell phone's screen wouldn't give him away, Stiles texted Derek and Scott. The chances that they'd respond to the text were slim, but once they saw it was about a threat to the territory, they'd be there, Stiles was sure of it. The one thing that had always managed to unite Derek and Scott were common enemies. Their alliances hadn't always been smooth sailing, but they'd always held long enough to keep Beacon Hills and the people living there safe and sound.

Twenty minutes later, Stiles was starting to get impatient. The cold was trailing up his legs and into his clothing, leaving him shivering. There was no response to his text and absolutely no sign of any werewolves in the area. Usually, that wouldn't be a bad thing, but he needed a few fanged and clawed friends to get rid of the kobaloi. With an annoyed sigh, he pulled his phone out again, texted a quick message to the rest of the pack and left Derek an angry - if whispered - voicemail. If Derek wanted to kick him out of the pack and listen to some stranger who told him Stiles was bad news, fine. But this had nothing to do with that. The town's safety shouldn't depend on his pack status, and once Derek was in his right mind again, Stiles would have a few more things to say about that. 

For now, though, he would wait for the rest of the pack to show up and get rid of Beacon Hills' pest problem.

#

Stiles' first mistake was hanging around while he waited for the pack. His second mistake was turning his back on the kobaloi.

He didn't notice their little party under moonlight coming to an end. He didn't notice the kobaloi wandering off into his direction. 

He did notice the sharp cry in a language he didn't know, and the weight that slammed into his legs, making him stumble away from the tree he'd been leaning against. He couldn't _see_ the kobaloi. He could see the small chips of bark that flew off the tree as one of the kobaloi scaled it and then launched itself at Stiles' head. He could hear the rustling leaves, see them being disturbed by small feet as the kobaloi ran towards him. 

The first few were easy enough to fight off. The one who'd jumped on Stiles' face had managed to scratch his cheek and neck with - thankfully - average, human-type fingernails, not claws. Stiles simply grabbed him and threw him off. A well-placed kick took care of the one trying to climb his legs. 

Stiles cried out when one of them bit his leg, sinking its pointy little teeth into the fleshy part of Stiles' calf. Reaching down to pull it off was Stiles' third mistake, and it almost turned into his last. The kobaloi used the fact that he'd bent over to swarm him. At most there had been twenty of them in the clearing with the Nemeton, but it felt like there were hundreds of them as their invisible hands tore into his clothes and they used their teeth to inflict as much damage as they could. Stiles wasn't the fittest, but he was no slouch either. He still wasn't a match for the kobaloi. 

After a minute, he was down on his knees, barely managing to keep the kobaloi away from his head and especially his neck. He was bleeding from several, mostly shallow wounds on his legs and arms. Stiles wasn't sure if it was the injuries he inflicted on them or that they were simply unable to keep the invisibility up for longer than a few minutes, but one by one, the kobaloi became visible. Up close, Stiles could see that the kobaloi had small, beady yellow eyes without eyelids, and a mouthful of really sharp fucking teeth. The one he was holding by the neck in his left hand was chewing on his shirt sleeve, leaving deep rips in the fabric. 

His bat, which had been was leaning against the tree at the beginning of the scuffle, had been knocked over and had rolled a couple of feet away, resting on a bed of leaves to Stiles' left. The blood running down his arm made the kobalos' leathery skin slippery. Stiles adjusted his grip and threw the kobalos he was holding against the nearest tree trunk. He hit it head-first, and it went down with a squeak. 

Stiles grabbed his bat. Two kobaloi were clinging to his back, kicking him and beating him with their small fists. Stiles hardly noticed the impacts, but he couldn't let them climb up and reach near his neck. He let himself fall backwards, ignoring the muffled squeaks from the kobaloi underneath him, and rolled over several times, shaking off the last of the kobaloi holding on to him. 

Stiles jumped to his feet, not wanting to stay on the ground too long. He took a swing with his bat and knocked two kobaloi several feet to the right and another one into a bush on his left on the back swing. One of them jumped at him from the side, but Stiles twisted and caught him around the neck. He was about to toss him into the others in an effort to knock a few of them off their feet when he noticed that the other kobaloi had gone still and quiet. 

Mind racing, Stiles kept a tight hold of both the kobalos and his bat. The one in his hand was slightly larger than the others. He had dark brown skin and the same yellow eyes as the rest, but around his neck was a delicate gold chain. Stiles didn't have much interest in inspecting jewelry, but looking at the kobalos' necklace, he could have wept for joy. The chain links were tiny and looked like they were expertly worked. The entire necklace probably wouldn't fit around Stiles' wrist even once, so close did it lie against the kobalos' throat. The best thing about it, though, was the fact that only kobaloi belonging to the royal family wore gold jewelry. 

"Do you speak my language?" Stiles asked. 

The kobaloi glanced at each other. 

Stiles tightened his grip on the kobalos' neck. The kobalos let out a pained groan. 

One of the others stepped forward. He had the same dark brown skin as Stiles' captive. "I am Zaugle. Release the prince!" 

"Well, I am Stiles," Stiles said. "And you know that's not going to happen." 

"He is not Stiles," Zaugle said. "That is not his name." 

Stiles shrugged. "It's a nickname." 

"I do not know that word." 

"It's what my friends and family call me." 

The kobaloi broke out in whispers Stiles couldn't understand. 

"Hey!" 

They whipped around, falling silent again. 

"I'm guessing you want your prince back unharmed, right?" 

Zaugle nodded. "Yes. Release the prince!" 

"Then we need to make a deal," Stiles said. He turned to the prince and found the prince watching him closely. The prince's small hands were wrapped around Stiles' thumb, but he had given up on trying to pry Stiles' hand off of him. "You are invading our territory." 

"Whose territory? There is no one here," the prince croaked. 

"There's me. The people of Beacon Hills. My pack." 

"Pack?"

"The Hale and McCall pack." 

"A wolf pack?"

Stiles nodded. 

The kobaloi broke out in whispers again, but this time their prince called them to order with a few short words Stiles didn't understand. 

"You are not a wolf. You have not brought any wolves with you tonight. We have not seen any wolves in the woods. How do we know there is a pack in this forest?" 

"You're right, I'm not a wolf. But I am training to be the pack's emissary. They are busy with another threat tonight, but we have noticed your trips into town. We can enter negotiations for a piece of the forest, but you can't go into town."

"The humans cannot see us." 

"They will eventually." 

"Negotiations?" 

"Yes." 

"So you will not harm us further?" 

"If you promise you and your people won't harm me any further." 

"Agreed," the prince said. "Let us negotiate." 

Stiles couldn't remember what the books said about negotiations. His research had focused more on how to get rid of them. But it seemed like bad manners to hold the prince hostage while they talked. Besides, the thing he did remember was that the kobaloi were bound by their word. If they promised something, they had to follow through. Carefully, Stiles put the prince down and let go. 

When none of the kobaloi moved, Stiles lowered himself down to the ground and crossed his legs. He was still taller than all of them, even sitting down, and he kept a tight grip of his bat. If they attacked again - well, he would at least see it coming this time. 

Across from Stiles, the prince sat down as well, mirroring Stiles' sitting position. 

"You are not the emissary yet. Why did the alpha send you?" 

"I'm a part of the pack," Stiles said. "I wasn't going to approach you today. I just wanted to find out where you were." 

The kobaloi prince gave Stiles a suspicious look, like he could tell that at least part of that sentence wasn't true. 

"Why did you come here, into occupied territory?" 

"It does not seem occupied," the prince said. "And the magic of the sacred tree called to us." 

"Well, it _is_ occupied. And the tree attracts many creatures." 

"More wolves?"

"Wolves and kanimas and banshees and ghosts. All spirits and supernatural creatures can feel it." 

The other kobaloi shivered and made booing noises. 

"We do not wish to share territory with banshees."

The kobaloi's faces were hard to read, but it was obvious to see they had a dislike for banshees. Maybe that was the way to get rid of them. "We have a banshee in the pack," Stiles said casually. "She's out of town right now, but she'll be back soon."

The koblaoi prince scooted backwards and the other kobaloi huddled around him. Stiles took a minute to take stock of his injuries - all relatively minor, with one or two deeper wounds that needed a bandage slapped on them soon - and check his phone - no messages, one missed call from his dad. Stiles grimaced. He would text his dad as soon as the negotiation was over. Or better yet, he'd wait until he was home and cleaned up, and then call him. 

"We do not wish to share territory with banshees," the prince repeated once the kobaloi had ended their impromptu conference. 

"Well, we were here first." 

"We are prepared to acknowledge your previous claim on the territory and leave," the prince said, "if you agree to let us keep what what we have foraged and grant us safe passage." 

"I would have to see what you have foraged. If you _found_ something in a human's home that is important to them, you can't keep it." 

The prince shook his head. "For everything you do not let us keep, you give us a token of equal value." 

Stiles shrugged. "Okay." 

The prince nodded to Zaugle and Zaugle snipped his fingers. Around them, food and a few other things appeared out of thin air. The food, Stiles decided, the kobaloi could keep. Most of it wasn't edible by human standards any more. There were a few bare slices of cheese on the dirty forest floor - no one wanted to eat cheese with a few dead leaves and an earthworm stuck to it. He did take a closer look at the non-food items around him. There was some clothing that was arranged in piles, almost like nests to sleep on. While losing a rare band t-shirt hurt, it wasn't irreplaceable. Stiles didn't see the harm in letting the kobaloi keep the clothing. Some of things were shiny but useless - a bottle cap, a few screws, a pair of scissors and a brass button. There was only one item he decided to take back - a slender silver watch with a small clock face framed by delicately-shaped silver hands.

Stiles took off his own watch - digital, and not nearly as pretty as the one he wanted to trade it for - and held it out to the prince. "This is the same kind of item," he said. "It tells the time, but mine does it digitally. It also lights up," he added, pushing the button on the side that illuminated the clock face. 

The prince waited until the clock face went dark and then pushed the button himself, watching as it lit up again. "Is the chronograph the only item you wish to take back?" 

"Yes." 

"Is this one of equal value?" 

Stiles shrugged. "Probably not." He pulled a package of Reese's and a couple of chocolate bars out of his pocket. "But all I can offer you in addition are these." 

The prince inclined his head. "Acceptable." He took the chocolate and handed the bars off to his men while he hung on to the package of Reese's. "We will leave now." 

Zaugle snipped his fingers again and the collected items disappeared. One by one, the kobaloi vanished from Stiles' sight and he could hear the rustling of the leaves as they walked away. 

"Your pack has not marked its territory well," the prince said. "But they did select a wise emissary-to-be." 

Stiles wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, because if he was one thing, it wasn't wise. Otherwise he would have figured out how to help his pack by now. "I try," he said, trying for a dry tone of voice. He ended up sounding like a strangled hamster, but if the kobaloi prince could tell the difference, he didn't let it show.

"We might not cross paths again in your lifetime, but the fates are not predictable. Should we meet again, you may call me Prince Nama."

"Cool," Stiles said. "My name is—"

"Your name is not your name," the prince interrupted, "but I will call your Stiles regardless." 

The prince gave Stiles one last nod and disappeared. 

Stiles waited until he couldn't hear any more leaves rustling and then headed back to his Jeep.

#

Somewhere between the talk with Prince Nama and the walk to his Jeep, Stiles started shaking. Now that the adrenaline was slowly wearing off, he became aware of all the aches and pains in his body, all the places where blood had started to dry and glued his clothing to his skin, pulling uncomfortably at the wounds. There was one wound on his upper arm that was still bleeding, blood running down his arm and hand. His other hand was bloody, too, but Stiles couldn't remember when that had happened.

Somehow, Stiles managed to drive home on autopilot, his hands slippery with blood. His entire body felt raw, like his skin was peeling off everywhere. He barely remembered parking the Jeep in the driveway, but getting his key into the front door lock was a complete blank. He must have done it, though, because he had made it into his room, alive and mostly in one piece. 

For a moment, he stood in the middle of the room, staring at the light gray rectangle on the floor - his carpet illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the window. It wasn't very bright compared to daylight, but it still made his eyes burn and water. He needed to go to the bathroom, get cleaned up. 

Call his dad. 

Stiles could feel a lump forming in his throat and he coughed, tasting bile. Tears were biting against his eyelids and -- when had he closed his eyes? And not just closed them, but screwed them shut tightly and even pressed his fists into his eye sockets so hard that he could see little explosions of light flash up every few seconds. Dread settled in his stomach like a cold lump of coal, hard but brittle and dusty. 

There were choked-off sounds coming from somewhere in the room, but Stiles couldn't unclench his fists, let alone open his eyes. It took him a few minutes to realize the sounds were his own sobs. 

He had to calm down, he realized. His heart was racing, his skin was clammy and he couldn't breathe. Stiles tried to take a panicked gulping breath, but his throat sized up. 

He couldn't breathe. 

He couldn't breathe and no one was coming for him.

#

When Stiles woke up, the room was dark and stuffy, and for a moment he thought that maybe he was dead. Maybe this was what he deserved for all of eternity, being stuck in a small, dark room with ventilation problems.

But then his eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw the outline of his two windows and the weird shape of the lamp on his desk. There was also a shadowy figure sitting on a chair beside the bed. For a split second, he thought it might be Derek, but of course it wasn't. It couldn't be: Derek had kicked him out. None of his pack mates were talking to him. Not just that, they also hadn't shown up when he asked them for help. He's been faced with entire gaggle of gnomes who had been happy enough to tear him apart with their tiny, razor sharp teeth, and no one had answered his call. 

Stiles' breath hitched and he felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He pressed his face to the pillow and let it soak up the moisture before forcing himself to think happy thoughts. He abandoned that plan as soon as he realized that he had no happy thoughts left to draw on. The amount of happy thoughts in his brain wouldn't even feed a baby Dementor. Stiles felt raw, like a bleeding wound. 

He shifted, wincing when the movement caused his skin to burn. The light was too dim to make out more than vague shapes, but he didn't need light to find the switch to turn on his bedside lamp. His fingers felt like they were coated in oil. Every time he went to push the button, his slippery fingers couldn't quite hit the mark. It took him three tries until the lamp flared to life and bathed the room in light.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the sting in his eyes after sitting in the dark for so long.

"Stiles? Are you back with me?" 

"Dad." Stiles blinked. He was still blinded by the light. "What happened?"

"That's what I'd like to know," his dad said. His voice was calm enough, but Stiles could hear an undercurrent of anger. "You didn't answer any of my texts, so I went home early to check on you. And guess what I found?" 

Stiles winced. Going into the woods alone had been stupid. But taking his dad? No way. His dad was a little more involved these days, but that didn't mean that Stiles wanted him to go out and hunt gremlin creatures. "I'm sorry," Stiles said. 

Stiles didn't know what his dad heard in his voice, but whatever it was made his dad's face crumple. Stiles suddenly very glad he hadn't told his dad before going out because his dad might have insisted on coming. He looked so tired and _old_ , sitting next to Stiles' bed, his shoulders hunched and his arms resting on his elbows, that Stiles didn't want to imagine him trying to run away from a bunch of aggressive gnomes. 

"I'm sorry, too," his dad said. "Just—don't do that to me, kid. I can't—" 

It wasn't hard for Stiles to complete the sentence. He'd thought the very same thing every single time he made the decision not to tell his dad about the reality of werewolves and kanimas and other supernatural creatures. When Stiles had been forced to tell him, he'd thought it every single time he'd withheld information or played down a threat to keep his dad out of the supernatural as much as he could. They were all the other had. Losing his dad would be intolerable. 

"Let's get you cleaned up. You wouldn't let me touch you earlier," his dad said, knees creaking as he got to his feet. 

Stiles was relieved that his dad didn't ask about what had set him off. It was possible his dad had just guessed the panic attack was brought on by events of the last few days catching up to him. Or he thought it was a flashback to the last time Stiles had lost someone he cared about. Either way, Stiles was glad enough to decide they were having pizza for dinner. Without any vegetables whatsoever. 

"Come on," his dad said, holding out a hand. 

Stiles reached out to grab it and paused. His fingers were red. 

"Yeah," his dad said, "that almost gave me a heart attack when I found you. There was blood on the driver's door of the jeep and on the front door." 

His dad helped him shuffle into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Stiles looked like an extra from a horror film. There was a smear of blood on his forehead and a small cut on his cheek. One side of his neck was scratched up, the skin red and irritated, but nothing had pierced the skin. His torso was relatively unscathed apart from his older wounds, but his legs were a mess. His jeans were destined for the trash. Even if the blood washed out, they were too shredded to wear. There were shallow cuts all over his legs, and Stiles made a face at the thought of cleaning and dressing them all. The shower would sting from head to toe. 

Stiles took off his plaid shirt and frowned at the fresh blood stain on it. His upper body was mostly unharmed. There was one cut on his face, some scratches on his neck and shoulders and, of course, the older injury on his chest. His hands, however, looked even worse than his legs. Not surprising, since he'd fought off the gnomes with his bare hands after losing the bat. The fresh blood stain came from a wound in the fleshy part of his right palm. Most of the blood on his hands had dried off by now, but that one injury must have re-opened. It was slowly leaking blood. 

The sound of the doorbell startled both of them. Their eyes met over Stiles' bloody-smeared shirt. 

"It's six thirty on a Sunday," Stiles said. "No one visits at six thirty on a Sunday. Did you clean the blood off the door?" 

"Once I was sure you weren't actually dying, yes!" his dad said. "Stay here. The less people see you like this, the better." 

Stiles rolled his eyes. That much was obvious. He turned on the tap and stuck his hand under the cold water, biting his lip at the pain. The wound was a bite wound rather than the slashes and scrapes on his legs. 

"What the hell happened to you?" 

Stiles jerked around, forgetting that his feet were still tangled in the remains of his jeans, and had to grab the sink for support. In the doorway to the bathroom, still in her coat, stood Lydia. 

"What are you doing here?"

Lydia dropped her handbag on the closed toilet seat and rushed to his side. "I asked you first," she said, helping him disentangle his legs. "Did you fall into a shark tank?" 

"Gremlins," Stiles said. 

Lydia raised her eyebrows.

"Kobaloi," Stiles specified. 

"And what? You thought you'd take on a whole gaggle of them by yourself? Are you insane?" 

Stiles winced, and it had very little to do with the fact that Lydia was rubbing his his shirt against the scrapes on his shoulder while trying to help him out of it.

"I tried to call you, but I couldn't reach you," Stiles said. 

"Why would you call me about the kobaloi, Stiles? There is an entire pack of werewolves with a disturbing taste for extreme violence in this town. I'm sure they would have loved to help out," Lydia said, inspecting his t-shirt. She obviously didn't consider it salvageable, judging by the fact that she tossed it on top of his jeans and gingerly kicked the clothes towards the door, careful not to get any blood on her shoes. "I thought it was something more urgent than a bunch of gnomes," Lydia continued. "I flew out here because I thought you were too busy dealing with ogres to answer my calls, and it's fucking gnomes?" 

Lydia turned back to face him, her gaze falling to his chest. A year ago, the fact that he was in a room with Lydia, wearing only his underwear, would have sent his heart into a rapid staccato beat. 

"Stiles!" Lydia's gaze was fixed to the scabbed over wounds on his chest. "What happened? Who did this?" Lydia looked up, her eyes locking with his. "What is going on?" 

For the second time in as many days, Stiles told the entire story of Morgan coming into town and turning the pack into mind-controlled puppets. But unlike his dad, Lydia got the unedited, no holds barred version of the story, kisses and claws included. It was at the same time exhausting and exhilarating and after making him take a shower and bandaging the worst of his injuries, Lydia got him to take two pain pills and talked him into going back to bed for some real sleep.

#

When Stiles woke up, he was alone in his room. For a moment, he kept his eyes closed, feeling almost too warm in his cocoon of blankets. The lower half of his body was in a square of sunshine streaming in through the window. Stiles wriggled his toes and sighed. His legs felt about a hundred times hotter than the rest of him. Despite the uncomfortable heat, though, he didn't want to move. Right here, warm and idle and in the comforting silence of his room, Stiles could forget what was going on. That none of his pack mates had been in contact with him for days and that, despite his dad's support, it took Lydia coming halfway across the country to make him feel like he was finally feeling solid ground underneath his feet again.

Whenever his dad had said he was too involved with the pack, his lives too interwoven with theirs, Stiles had scoffed and said he couldn't imagine a better way to live. He still couldn't. Yet it was his closeness to the pack that made him feel the despair of being cut off so acutely. He had felt the sharp, slicing pain at Derek's words, telling him he wasn't a part of the pack. He could still feel a dull throbbing somewhere in a dark corner of his mind whenever his thoughts turned to the pack. Stiles knew exactly how much easier his life would be if he'd never learned about the reality of the supernatural.

But that wasn't him. That wasn't Stiles Stilinski, master of bad jokes and werewolf puns. (Future) Emissary of the Hale-McCall pack. He couldn't just stick his head in the sand and pretend he'd never fit in anyway. His high school lacrosse career had consisted of fetching towels, warming the bench and very occasionally being allowed to actually play. And every single time he'd fought to do his best. He didn't back down then; he wouldn't back down now. No stupid warlock would destroy his pack while he had anything to say about it. 

A quick glance at his alarm clock said it was just after two. As if on cue, Stiles' stomach started rumbling. Grinning, Stiles kicked his blankets off and then fell back onto his back, groaning. His entire back twinged with pain at any vigorous movement, and there were small bruises all over his arms. Several of the band-aids on his small wounds had come loose over night, exposing scabbed over cuts and scratches. Stiles made a face and peeled a now fuzzy band-aid off his bed sheets. 

"Ugh. This never happens in movies." Nobody in the movies had spider man band-aids either, though. Stiles was sure that if he wanted to, he could heal more heroically, with a butterfly bandage holding together a cut on his face (that probably wouldn't leave a rugged-looking scare even without treatment). He just chose to heal like a mere mortal, relying on antiseptic cream, band-aids and energy gel for his muscle aches. 

Stiles pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt from his 'not washed recently but still smelling okay' pile. Lydia would make a face at the Super Mario picture on it, but the way Stiles saw it, they needed all the help they could get. Even that of fictional video game heroes. 

Lydia and his dad were in the dining room when Stiles came downstairs. His dad was munching on a salad. Stiles approved. Lydia - who also had a salad in front of her - ignored him in favor of the book she was paging through. Just like old times.

"There's stuff for sandwiches in the fridge," his dad said by way of greeting. "And Lydia made a salad." 

"You're just in time for a late lunch and some research," Lydia said. "But don't touch the pastrami sandwich; I made that for myself. If it's gone when I want to eat it, you're going to suffer the pain of a thousand hot needles stabbing you in the eye." 

Stiles quickly put the pastrami sandwich back into the fridge and grabbed the jar of mayonnaise and a few other things. "Did you find anything while I was asleep?" Stiles asked, spreading the mayo on some bread. 

"I was asleep, too," his dad said unhelpfully. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. At least he knew where he got the propensity to make bad jokes in difficult circumstances. "Lydia?" 

"Nothing definitive yet, but I found a source of spells to revert any mind control spells. It also includes antidotes for mind control potions," Lydia said. 

Stiles glanced at the laid out ingredients, then at his finished sandwich. On the one hand, if he put the stuff away now, he wouldn't have to do it after he ate. On the other hand, if he ate now, he ate _now_. Hunger won. Stiles took a huge bite out of his sandwich and made his way over to the table, grabbing the book Lydia slid over. His dad rolled his eyes at him and handed over a napkin. 

"See?" Lydia pointed out. "This entire section deals with reversing any mind control - spells, potions, there's even a few paragraphs on people with the natural ability to influence others." She sighed. "But it won't do us much good unless we know what we're dealing with. We can't help the pack if we don't know what kind of spell you-know-who has put them under." 

Stiles nearly choked on his sandwich as realization hit him. "Oh my God. That's it!"

"What?" 

"He who must not be named." 

Lydia gave him a confused look. "Voldemort? Voldemort is the answer?"

"No, names! That's the answer. That's how he's doing it." 

"What are you talking about?" his dad asked. 

"It was staring me right in the face, too. From the first meeting onwards." Stiles smacked his own forehead. "Morgan asked my name and he was really weird about Stiles being just a nickname. And then he dropped by the station and I was worried that he got to you, Dad, but you seemed fine and I should have wondered why. And last night, the kobaloi prince said something that should have jump started the idea. It's so obvious now that I've thought of it." 

Stiles barely managed to contain his light bulb moment. Names! It wasn't touch that controlled the pack, or a potion - it was their names. Names had power. One of the first things Deaton had taught him was that names weren't just words. They had their own magic. Most people never came face to face with any monsters. They didn't have to protect their names from witches and warlocks and fairies and sirens.

Using someone's name to compel them was old magic. Old, and as black as wolfsbane-poisoned bile. It wasn't quite as simple as calling someone by their name. The witch or warlock working the spell needed the subject's full name, for one, and Stiles was fortunate enough that only very few people knew his first name and even fewer could pronounce it. He hadn't been caught in whatever spell Morgan was working because Morgan hadn't been able to use his name.

"Okay, I get that your name is super weird, but your dad's?"

Stiles and his dad exchanged a look. His dad sighed. "Lots of Zs and Cs. It's one of the reasons why I never put up much of a fight when Stiles decided to go by Stiles." 

"Dad even talked to the teachers and got them to just put Stiles on all the paperwork." 

"I know what it's like to have the kind of name that means you have to spell it all the damn time for other people. It's just easier not to use it. My middle name is John - I've been telling people to use that whenever they absolutely have to know my first name because they want to seem like they're on good terms with the sheriff." He shrugged. "I was going to change it, back in the day, make John my actual first name, but then I met Stiles' mom and she loved weird names. She hated the fact that her parents had called her something as boring and normal as Claudia when they had so many more interesting names to choose from." 

"How did you meet?" Lydia asked. 

She seemed interested despite herself. Stiles grinned to himself, then casually hid it behind his hand. Lydia had told him repeatedly that she wasn't interested in his family drama or his sad, tragic life. It was all a big, fat lie. He'd known that, of course. If Lydia honestly didn't care, she'd never deign to spend any time with him at all, her friendship with Allison be damned. She wouldn't have spent the last couple of years running around with a wolf pack or making sure that all of them - even Scott - graduated with the kind of GPA that would open a lot of doors. She wouldn't have flown across the country on a hunch or because of gut feeling that something was wrong. 

"Well," his dad said, leaning back in his chair. "I was lowly deputy, fresh out of the academy. That meant I got to do a lot of the grunt work. Lots of small-time cases. One time, I had to go and get a statement from a witness in a car crash. That witness was Stiles' granddad. Claudia - Stiles' mom - was visiting her parents over spring break, and she was the one who opened the door when I knocked. Her dad was quite a bit older than her mom, and Claudia had been a late baby, so while she was in her early twenties, her dad was seventy-six. He didn't hear too well, and he was more comfortable speaking Polish than English. My dad was from Poland, too, but I only know a handful of words, so Claudia stayed to translate. The first thing I asked him was his full name, and it was probably the worst, most complicated name you could imagine. But I'd actually heard it before, and I knew how to spell it. Now, Claudia, she was used to people not knowing, so she started to spell it for me. I told her it was fine, and she didn't believe me. I definitely know where Stiles gets his bullheadedness from--"

"Dad! I thought we decided to call it tenacity," Stiles interrupted, sounding affronted.

"I call it as I see it," his dad said with a laugh. "She wouldn't let me go on until I'd shown her my notes and then she gave me this appraising look. After the interview, she walked me out and two days later she showed up at the station, sat down at my desk and said she'd thought about it and come to the conclusion that we should go out on a date because she was going back to college in a couple of days and wouldn't be back until the end of the semester which, obviously, would be way too long to wait until we could see each other again." 

"So you agreed?" 

"Yes, I agreed. I took her out for Italian that night, and Greek the next, and three weeks later I drove down to Berkley and surprised her." He sighed, a fond smile settling on his lips. "Turns out the end of the semester was too long to wait anyway."

Lydia smiled - a real smile, not the fake society smile she put on for other people - and Stiles felt his lips stretch into an answering smile. As a banshee, Lydia had the power to sense death and when she screamed, someone was going to die. Right now Stiles would have sworn that bringing hope was also among her superpowers. For the first time since Morgan had hijacked his pack, Stiles felt hopeful. He put up a hopeful front most days, going so far to even lie to himself, but he couldn't sustain the facade for long. Last night's panic attack had proved as much. Not even a week on his own and he was a wreck. 

A balled-up piece of paper hit Stiles in the forehead and bounced off, rolling over the table and coming to a rest against the bowl of apples in the middle. Stiles glanced up. His dad was pointedly crunching on his salad. Lydia had her eyes glued to the open page of her book. Stiles glared at her.

"Less daydreaming, more research," she said without looking up. "Now that we know how Morgan is controlling the pack, we need to find out how to reverse the effects. And fast." 

Grumbling, Stiles took another bite of his sandwich and turned the page.

#

Three hours later, Stiles and Lydia had come up with several theories and then dismissed each of them again. Lydia put her last book back on the pile and then looked around. "Where are your other books on mind control counter spells?" she asked. "This can't be all you have."

Stiles grinned. "Oh, I have tons more." He opened the directory on his computer and called up one of his external hard drives. He turned the screen so that Lydia could see the index. "This is the 21st century, not the Middle Ages. I can store a terabyte of data on this hard drive - do you know how much extra space I'd need for all the books? Not all of us have rich, guilty parents that build us our own library if we ask."

"As long as it has what I need, I don't really care if you give me a stack of books or this computer." Lydia gave him a one shoulder shrug and then pushed him out of the chair. "Why haven't you put them somewhere where we can get to them, too? I mean, remotely." 

"Because the computer genius who was sort-of-but-not-really-pack is away at college and I don't actually know how to do that? I mean, I get that my dad thinks I'm his personal IT fix-it guy, but I usually just reboot his laptop and if that doesn't work, I google for a solution. What, you wear one geeky t-shirt and suddenly you're an IT expert? Where did that stereotype even come from?" 

"Nerds know this stuff, Stiles." 

"Yes, _nerds_ ," Stiles said pointedly. "Which I am not."

"Keep on believing that if it makes you happy," Lydia said. 

There was a knock on the open door and they both looked up.

"One of my contacts got back to me today. Morgan Fairfax doesn't exist - at least not with that face," his dad said, leaning against the door jamb and holding up several files. "But a man bearing a striking resemblance to him is wanted in several states for fraud, identity theft, and any number of crimes connected to that. He has used several names over the last few years, all but one using the initials M and F." 

Lydia frowned. "But that doesn't make sense. If Morgan is just a petty criminal, then where is he getting the power for a mind control spell?" 

"The Nemeton," Stiles said. "Even weak supernatural creatures are drawn to it, which is why we had to deal with all sorts of pests. By now, most creatures know the area is protected and don't bother to come unless they're really looking for trouble." 

"Right," Lydia said, nodding. "And it's not just supernatural creatures that the tree attracts but also people who've been touched. As a warlock, even a weak one, Morgan would have felt the pull." 

"What I don't get is what he's doing with your pack," Stiles' dad cut in. "I've looked through the case files my buddy sent over. As far as I can tell, there's no supernatural connection anywhere, apart from Morgan himself. I think he used his mojo to con people into accepting his deals or just handing over their money. And once they were back in their right minds, they went to the cops." He fanned out the stack of files, handing some to Lydia and some to Stiles. "None of the victims were quite sure how he stole from them or forged their signatures, but they were all adamant about the fact that they did not give Morgan anything voluntarily. In every single case, the victim could describe him and everything that happened, except for the few minutes of the crime occurring. The police has a theory that he used some kind of drug, maybe an aerosol, to make people dizzy and pliant, but they haven't been able to find traces of it in the blood." 

"Obviously a spell," Lydia said. "But good point. Why _is_ he targeting the pack? None of us have any money and identity theft wouldn't really get him anything. And it's not like Derek has a Van Gogh hidden under his bed that he could steal." 

"What if it's not about that?" Stiles tapped his fingers against his mouth, eyebrows drawn. "What if… Just thinking out loud here, but what if he needs the pack for something else? Like protection."

"From what?" 

"Everything?" Stiles shrugged. "If he's here to stay, well, he'd be in danger from the creatures attracted by the Nemeton." 

"True." Lydia narrowed her eyes, leafing through the case files. "Everything about this guy reads like he's compensating for having a small dick." 

Stiles ignored his spluttering dad and asked, "What do you mean?" 

"Here," Lydia said, tapping a page on the report in front of her. "The items he took included a Lamborghini, expensive Italian leather shoes and a gold money clip. And in this case here--" Lydia tapped on another file. "—the wife's diamond jewelry, the husband's high-end golf set and the son's super expensive stereo system. He consistently conned upscale shops into giving him designer furniture and clothing and then disappeared without paying." 

"So what? He wants to be rich and famous." 

Lydia shrugged. "Probably just rich." 

"I don't get it," Stiles dad said. "If he wants to get rich, then what is he doing here?"

"Power," Lydia said, like that one word explained everything. 

In a way, it did. Stiles nodded. "Of course. He feels the Nemeton's power and takes care of the biggest hurdle - the pack - by putting them under his spell. And with the pack for protection, he can use the Nemeton's power to get what he wants." 

Stiles' dad shook his head. "I'm not convinced. He's been here a week - why isn't he driving around in a Ferrari by now?" 

"He's not a very strong warlock - that's why the people he conned aren't still going about their daily lives like it's not even worth mentioning the guy who made off with the family jewels. They woke up from the spell and reported him, probably because the spell wasn't strong enough to be permanent or last for longer than a day after Morgan left town." 

"The pack - apart from Allison - would be more difficult to control than humans. Being werewolves means they'll be more susceptible to some things, like wolfsbane. Mind control magic isn't one of them, though. Morgan has to be drawing some power from the woods in order to keep them all on this mental leash." 

"You haven't actually answered my question." 

"Yes, we have," Stiles argued. "Lydia said he's drawing power from the woods - not the Nemeton."

"Smartass," his dad said. 

"Everything I learned about smartassing, Dad, I learned from you," Stiles said with a little bow. Then he ducked the paper-clip his dad threw at him in retaliation. 

"Men are such children," Lydia said, raising her eyebrows expectantly until Stiles and his dad sat up straight. "All of Beacon Hills is saturated with magical energy. Places like this, where you have werewolves and other supernatural creatures, magic users and druids and ley-lines, they store up the excess energy those people and creatures put out. The earth acts like a sponge, soaking it up until the very air is full of magic. It's not something most people would notice. It's not even very strong. But it's enough for something like the Nemeton to exist and survive in even after it was cut down. That's energy we all draw on sometimes, in most cases subconsciously. Morgan can tap into that, too. He won't exhaust his magical resources quite as quickly." 

"I don't feel like that," Stiles said, frowning. 

"You grew up here. You're just as saturated with magic as the earth is. Your dad and I, too. Everything in town is. That's why you don't necessarily feel weaker or more tired when you're outside of the city limits." 

"Okay, so Morgan can tap into that, but he doesn't have a direct line to the Nemeton," his dad summed up. 

"Yet," Stiles added. "Controlling the pack isn't going to make Morgan rich unless he makes them rob banks. We have to assume that the Nemeton is why he's here. That siphoning off the tree's power is his ultimate goal." 

"Great. That's good. We can work with that," Lydia said. "We'll get our pack back, stop him, and make sure he won't do it again." 

"Right," Stiles said slowly. "How exactly are we going to do that again?" 

"Find a counter spell, free the pack, crush Morgan into bite-sized pieces and let loose our wolves," Lydia said darkly.

Stiles froze, caught between feeling uncomfortable and slightly aroused. Oh, who was he kidding? Never mind the fact that he wasn't so much straddling the fence any more these days as he was playing exclusively in Derek's sandbox. He could still find Lydia in her 'crush my enemies' mode scorching hot. 

On the other side of the desk, Stiles' dad cleared his throat, closed the file he was looking over and stood up. "All right. Why don't you kids work on that and I'll get dinner started?"

#

That night, Stiles didn't feel the same crippling helplessness he'd felt over the last few days. The anger was still there, but Lydia's presence had given it a sharper edge. They had found two spells that could work to free their pack mates from Morgan's spell, and between them they had worked out a plan to catch one of the wolves and start getting their pack back.

Stiles switched off the light in the bathroom and headed across the hall into his room. The door to the guest room was already firmly closed and there was no light shining out underneath the door. Back in his room, Stiles sat down on the edge of his bed and reached for his phone. It had a small smudge of blood on the screen and he wiped it off with a tissue before unlocking it. 

It was the first time he'd so much as looked at his phone since calling the pack for help and receiving no answer. He'd tried calling them before, of course. Everyone had gotten daily text messages, even Boyd (although they still weren't exactly friends, they were _pack_ ), but they'd never answered him. Morgan's doing, obviously, and Stiles hadn't given it much thought until the encounter with the kobaloi. The fact that they had completely ignored his plea for help and the threat to the territory had made him doubt himself again. For a moment there, he had - for the first time in over a year - felt like he had no pack. Like he was truly alone in the world. That had proved to be the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back and resulted in a panic attack for Stiles and an uncomfortable and restless night for his dad.

His phone beeped, startling Stiles out of his thoughts. The battery was down to 5%. Rolling his eyes at his own jumpiness, he plugged in the charger and attached his phone. 

He climbed into bed, closed his eyes and tried to sleep. 

Two hours later, Stiles was just about ready to give up on sleep and go back to researching or perhaps video games - shooting virtual trolls was very therapeutic - when the door to his room opened and Lydia poked her head in. 

"Stiles?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Can't sleep?" 

"How'd you guess?" 

Instead of answering, Lydia pushed open the door and stepped inside. She dumped a blanket and several pillows on his bed, disappeared from the room and was back a minute later with even more pillows. 

"Where did you find all these pillows?" 

"The guest room. Downstairs. The small, lilac-colored one is my travel pillow." Lydia swatted at his legs and Stiles reflexively moved them out of the way. She arranged the pillows around the bed, making a nest for them to curl up in. "Any funny business, and I won't hesitate to kick you where it hurts." She climbed into the bed beside him and wrapped herself in her blanket, putting her head on his shoulder. Her hair smelled like strawberries, and Stiles wasn't sure if it was Lydia's shampoo or just his imagination.

"I didn't even know we had so many pillows." 

"Shut up and go to sleep, Stiles." 

The moonlight combined with the light from the street lamp outside wasn't enough for Stiles to see Lydia's face, but he could imagine the eye roll.

Stiles pushed his nose into Lydia's hair. Definitely strawberries. "Your hair smells like strawberries and I've dreamed about you in my bed for roughly a decade. Yet all I can think is 'I wonder what Derek's hair smells like'. God, I'm pathetic."

Lydia turned onto her side and put her arm across his stomach. But while her touch was affectionate, her voice was exasperated. "I'm not kidding, Stiles. We have to get up early tomorrow. Cast some spells, stop an evil sorcerer. Go to sleep." 

"All right," Stiles replied, putting one arm around Lydia, and the other over his stomach, his fingers brushing against Lydia's arm. 

That's how his dad found them the next morning.

#

John raised his eyebrows at the sight, but didn't comment when he found Lydia Martin, curled up into Stiles' side, both of them surrounded by a wall of pillows, when he went to wake up his son. The look Stiles shot him over Lydia's head was half-guilty, half-defiant. John merely raised his hands in a defensive gesture and backed out of the room. Embarrassing Stiles might have been part of his parental duties, but he didn't need Lydia Martin to know he'd seen her with bed hair. That girl was a force of nature.

He wasn't sure what was going on between Stiles and Lydia. For over half a decade, Stiles had been head over heels in love with Lydia. He had defended her from every negative word despite the fact that Lydia hadn't said more than a handful of words to Stiles during that time. Then, around the same time when things went to hell in Beacon Hills, Stiles and Lydia somehow became friends and stayed friends all through high school. Knowing what was really going on in town had helped him understand the sudden change in attitude from Lydia, but it didn't explain why Stiles had cooled off where Lydia was concerned. She was still important to him. He still talked about her a lot. But he wasn't wearing the same rose-tinted glasses any more. 

_Not for Lydia, anyway,_ John thought, chuckling to himself. Maybe the supernatural did explain things. After all, Derek was a supernatural creature. 

Derek Hale. Now that was someone John never would have thought he'd ever think of with any kind of fondness. Years ago, when he'd first learned about the supernatural, Derek leaving town hadn't exactly endeared the sheriff to him. He'd left Scott - a new alpha - to struggle with the rest of the werewolves. He'd left Isaac without so much as a goodbye. He'd left, period. At a time when not only his friends - his pack - needed answers but also the police. The woman he'd been involved with was dead. She'd kidnapped three people and killed a dozen others. Scott's dad hadn't been too pleased to find Derek had skipped town. Neither had John, both as the sheriff and as the guy who'd just found out werewolves were real. He had questions, too. Not just about Jennifer Blake or Julia Baccari or whatever her real name was. He'd been thrust into a world of werewolves, druids and all kinds of monsters. He could talk to Melissa, but her knowledge was limited. Talking to Chris Argent had given him flashbacks to the Army recruiter who'd come and talked at his school - lots of big words and 'us and them' talk, but so obviously one-sided that he couldn't help but doubt a lot of the information was as straightforward as Argent wanted to make it seem. 

And Stiles? Stiles had explained a lot of things. Later, Scott had filled in some more of the blanks, but John was under no delusion that he got the unedited version of what happened. To this day, Stiles got a pinched look on his face when anyone from the pack brought up the dangers of the lives they all led. It wasn't that Stiles excluded him - he just wanted him involved as little as possible and as safely as possible, protecting him even now.

It annoyed John even though he knew he'd do exactly the same thing. 

He was the adult, though. It was his job to protect Stiles, not the other way around. He didn't want to come home and find his son bloodied and barely breathing in the throes of a panic attack. He didn't want to go to work knowing that his son and one of his friends wanted to confront a mind-controlled werewolf and perform a dangerous spell. Sighing, he heaped another spoonful of coffee into the filter. He had a feeling they could all use their coffee extra strong today. 

Stiles came thundering down the stairs and John allowed himself a small smile. Good to know that his little boy was still in the tall young man Stiles had grown up to be. 

The smile took on a wistful note. Stiles was barely eighteen - technically a grown up, but reality didn't have a convenient switch from youth to adulthood. In many ways, Stiles had had to grow up before his time. When his mom died, when Scott got bitten, when his friends died. But somehow he'd managed to hold on to his humor and stubbornness, never forgetting that there was, ultimately, a light at the end of the tunnel. And there were a few good things that came out of the reveal of the supernatural. He and Stiles talked more. They were much more open and honest with each other these days, helping each other out. 

Stiles barged into the room and dropped the bag he was carrying. "Morning."

Lydia came up behind him, carrying her purse and jacket. "Sheriff." 

"Morning, kids." He opened the fridge. No bacon, but he could have some eggs with his toast. "You want breakfast before you leave?" 

"I don't think I could eat right now," Lydia said. 

Stiles just pulled a face and shook his head emphatically.

Lydia's nose twitched. "I could, however, go for some coffee." 

John nodded and pulled a cup down from the top shelf. He and his wife had originally put them up there because Stiles had had the energy of ten kids and the shelf above the sink was one of the few unlocked places Stiles couldn't get into. He never could resist the allure of shattering porcelain or glass. All the cupboards had had child locks on, but neither he nor Claudia had been up to dealing with them early in the morning. Stiles had been taller than him for the last few months (and used every opportunity to remind him), but the coffee mugs would forever be on the top shelf above the sink. 

He handed the cup to Lydia and then pulled another one down for Stiles. "It's pretty strong," he cautioned. 

"Good." Lydia smiled. "I can use it." 

While the kids filled up on coffee, John cooked his eggs. His gaze drifted down to the duffel bag under the table. "Are you all set for today? Do you have everything?" 

"Wolfsbane, mace, taser," Lydia said. "I'm good." 

"Plus the books, the spell items, the chains and our phones," Stiles added. "All we need now is for you to call Deaton." 

"And for the plan to work," Lydia added dryly. 

Stiles made a shushing sound and Lydia rolled her eyes, making a show of zipping her lips and throwing away the key. John raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"No negativity allowed," Stiles explained.

"Good plan," John said. He shot a longing glance at his eggs and then steeled himself. "Can you put my eggs on a sandwich? I'm going to take breakfast in with me. I'll go call Deaton now. No sense in putting it off, is there?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stiles and Lydia exchange a look and move towards the stove. With a sigh, John headed for his office to instigate phase one of The Plan.

#

"You dad doesn't seem to like our plan," Lydia said, spreading mayo on two slices of bread.

Stiles, with his head in the fridge, replied, " _I_ don't like our plan." He emerged from the fridge, a package of lunch meat in his hand. "But it's the only one we have if we don't want to wait any longer." 

"Which we don't." Lydia accepted the meat and Stiles watched as she started arranging thin slices of it on the sandwich halves. "Do you have any salad?" 

"In the fridge." 

"Great." She poked him in the ribs as she went past. "Now stop fidgeting and put on the eggs." 

They finished with the sandwich just as his dad came back into the room. 

"Deaton is going to meet me at the station in twenty minutes," his dad said. "When he started talking about the clinic, I told him it wouldn't take long and to have his employee open it. I'm pretty sure Deaton knows something is up with this strange request for an urgent consult, but he agreed to stop by and he confirmed that Scott is going to open up the clinic today." 

"Twenty minutes," Lydia said. "We should all get going." She plucked the Jeep's keys from Stiles hand and headed outside. 

Stiles bent down to grab the duffel back and then watched as his dad put on his jacket. "Dad?" 

"Yeah?" his dad said, straightening the collar of his jacket and adjusting the radio pinned to his shoulder. 

"Be careful, okay? I don't really know what Deaton's deal is. He could just be indifferent, or he's a good guy who for whatever reason won't or can't help." Stiles took a deep breath, wishing he'd never had this last thought. "Or he's one of the bad guys. Not necessarily connected to Morgan, but in general, you know?"

"Don't worry, Stiles. I'm pretty sure I and the rest of the department can handle Alan Deaton should he make any trouble." 

"I'm serious, Dad. I don't even know what Deaton is capable of, and I've been working with him on my magic for the last one and a half years. I have no clue why he reacted like he did, but I doubt it's a good sign." 

His dad's eyes softened. "I'll be careful, Stiles. If you promise to do the same." 

Stiles shifted. This was too close to saying goodbye, and saying goodbye was absolutely unnecessary because they'd get the pack back and have pack movie night at the Stilinski's today. 

"Stiles?" 

"I'll be careful." He quickly stepped out onto the porch. "It's only Scott." 

"Mind-controlled Scott. Who would hate himself if he ever caused you or Lydia harm without meaning to." 

"We've got everything we need to break the spell. And we'll be careful," Stiles promised.

"Call me with updates," his dad said. "And I mean it. No more solo gigs. I don't want to see a repeat of what happened with the gremlins." 

"I promise." 

Stiles waited until his dad had locked the door to give him a brief hug. His dad returned the hug just as fiercely which made Stiles feel a little better about needing the contact. They separated and headed for their cars. Stiles had to wait until his dad's cruiser had left the driveway before he could back out himself. At the end of the road, Stiles looked at Lydia and found her looking back with serious eyes. 

"So," Stiles said. "Are we really going to walk into the werewolf's den and de-worm his brain?" 

Lydia gave him one of her scathing looks that simply didn't hold the same kind of derision any more. "That was the worst mangling of that saying I've ever heard." 

"I'll take that as a yes," Stiles said. 

He turned the car left towards the animal clinic.

#

Deaton usually opened the clinic an hour before it was open to the public. That gave him and Scott or Isaac time to check up on the animals that had to stay overnight and to feed them. It would also conveniently provide them with some time to counter the spell before they had to worry about patients and their owners showing up for their morning appointments.

Stiles and Lydia had no way of disguising their presence or covering their arrival from a werewolf - and an alpha werewolf at that. Stiles stopped and parked the jeep outside of Scott's range of hearing and they went the rest of the way on foot. Their approach was mostly silent, for two more or less human beings. Lydia was wearing more practical, but nonetheless stylish, flat shoes and Stiles appreciated that. Not that Lydia usually wore high heels to fights. She just usually complained about it more. 

The clinic's parking lot was deserted. Only Scott's bike was parked near the dumpster at the far of the lot. 

Stiles felt his heartbeat ratchet up a notch. He had the strange urge to mutter "Showtime!" in a show host's voice, but refrained. That sort of thing might work in action movies, but in real life it got you caught by your mind-controlled alpha werewolf friend that much faster. 

They reached the door and Stiles caught Lydia's eye. Lydia wore her make-up like a shield. She picked high heels and short dresses and plunging necklines and wore them like armor. Now, with her eyes framed by black eyeliner, shaded with soft pink eye shadow, and her mouth expertly lined and filled in with red, she looked composed and ready for anything. Too bad Stiles knew her better than most and could see right through it to the tense set of her mouth and the nervous way her gaze flickered from side to side, trying to keep an eye on everything. 

Lydia went in first. Stiles didn't necessarily approve of that part of the plan, but the same could be said for the rest of the plan. None of it was exactly safe for either one of them. Besides, he would never dispute the fact that Lydia was approximately a million times more badass then he could ever hope to be. 

Following closely on Lydia's heels, Stiles crouched down a few feet away, hidden from Scott's view by the counter that ran down the length of the room. He took out the taser and checked the charge. 

"Scott!" Lydia yelled. "I know you're in the back, Scott. I need to talk to you!" She tapped on the bell on the counter repeatedly. The loud jangle would hopefully conceal Stiles' presence until it was too late for Scott to do anything about it.

From where he was crouching on the floor, Stiles could see Lydia's other hand. It was curled into a fist. 

Over the noise of the bell, Stiles couldn't hear Scott approach. When Lydia suddenly brought her fist up, he took that as his cue and shot to his feet, aiming the taser at Scott. 

It turned out that the taser was unnecessary. Scott, his face dusted in deep purple, swayed on his feet for a moment and then crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Stiles relaxed his stance and exchanged a glance with Lydia. 

"Now for the hard part." 

Lydia snorted delicately and dusted off her hands. There were still specks of purple clinging to her fingers, though, when she went to lock the clinic's door.

#

Stiles fastened the last of the ropes - steel-reinforced and threaded with dried wolfsbane flowers - around Scott's ankles and stepped back, checking to see if there was any way for Scott to escape. There was some play in the ropes - Stiles didn't want to cut off blood flow to any important regions - but not enough for Scott to be able to free himself.

"Good, you're done with that already," Lydia said, setting the ceremonial bowl down on the floor. "You can help me set up everything." 

They didn't talk as they set up the candles they would need for the ritual. Stiles drew the sigils he needed to focus his own spell onto the gray-brown linoleum in blue chalk, careful not to step on any of them or wipe away the chalk with his feet or the cuff of his jeans as he stepped across one to the next. Oddly enough, drawing the sigils relaxed Stiles a little. It helped him focus to concentrate on the distinct swirls and lines of each sigil, making sure each of them was legible and perfectly drawn. 

Once the sigils were drawn, the candles were placed and the herbs they needed were lined up just outside the circle Lydia had drawn around him and Scott, Stiles glanced at his best friend. 

"How long is he going to be out?" 

Lydia shrugged. "Not sure. The last time I made this stuff, I was out of my mind. I didn't really pay much attention to the small print." 

"There was small print?" Stiles' eyes widened. "How come I'm only hearing about this now?"

"It's magic - there's always small print," Lydia said. "All magic has consequences." 

That was very true. Stiles had often lamented the fact that he couldn't just use magic to make things easier, but if Buffy the Vampire Slayer had taught him anything, it was that you had to be responsible with your magic use. "Still," Stiles objected. "You didn't think it was worth mentioning that this could have unknown side effects? What if Scott, I don't know, goes bald? Or worse?" Scott would definitely hate him if his dick fell off. 

"Derek suffered from nothing worse than a hangover. I think he would have mentioned it if there had been more drastic side effects. Besides, did you want to try and reason with him? He came out of the back with his fangs out."

Stiles glanced down at Scott. Looking at his lax face, it was hard to imagine that he'd been ready to attack Lydia without a second thought. But he'd had Derek snapping at his face and digging his claws into Stiles' chest three days ago, behaving like the complete opposite of the Derek he knew. Stiles pushed the thought away. They were here to fix it, and fix it they would. Starting with Scott. 

"Do you have the blade?" 

Lydia handed him a small dagger, with a short, sharp blade and a carved wooden handle. The wood was polished oak the color of dark honey. Age and frequent handling had made it smooth to the touch. It fit into Stiles' hand like two puzzle pieces that interlocked. He didn't want to think about the implications of why magical paraphernalia always seemed to make him feel right at home or why it came to him so naturally. Deaton had told Stiles once that he combined raw power with a deep connection to the Nemeton and a very strong belief. Usually, Stiles would take anything Deaton said with a grain of salt. Especially in light of Deaton's most recent - could he call it a betrayal? Or was that too dramatic for what, ultimately, looked like another attempt from the man to stay more neutral than Switzerland in whatever conflict plagued the town? But despite his habitual suspicion of Deaton's words, Stiles couldn't help but wonder how much truth had been in that. Possibly more than he'd like to admit. 

"Ready?" 

"Not really." 

"Great," Lydia said dryly. "Let's get started. Do you have the oil?" 

Stiles nodded, lining up all the spell components - the vial of oil, the dagger and the bowl - in front of him. 

Lydia took a matchbook out of her pocket and struck a match. It sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the clinic. It struck Stiles then that the silence itself was unnatural - the animals in the back of the clinic should have been making some kind of noise. Maybe they were making noise and he simply couldn't hear it. Magic had a way of drawing him in and enveloping him completely, until all he knew was the magic. He could already feel the energy in the room swirl, the constant ebb and flow of it settling more into a steady stream of energy output. Deaton's animal clinic was probably the only one in the world that had seen more actual magic than most so-called magic shops. 

Lydia lit the first candle and started chanting in Latin, invoking the goddess of the moon. Moving in a counter-clockwise direction, she lit all four candles and then continued to walk around the circle two more times, ending the last invocation just as she reached her starting point again. For a split second, the blue chalk marks flared to life and glowed an eerie blue, clearly visible despite the bright neon lighting from overhead. 

Now that the circle was in place and sealed from any outside influences, Scott was cut off from Morgan. Whatever spell Morgan had cast was still there, but it couldn't function without a working connection to Scott. All Stiles needed to do was to make the separation of Scott and the spell permanent.

Stiles removed the cork from the small oil vial and let a few drops of it dribble into the palm of his left hand. Stiles dipped the fingers of his right hand into the gathered oil and brushed them over Scott's face, running his fingers over Scott's brow and over his cheekbones. He slowly worked his way down to Scott's neck, smearing oil over Scott's pulse point. Scott, although still unconscious, squirmed and turned his head away in a subconscious effort to get away. The oil was meant to cleanse Scott's spirit and drive away anything unwanted. The fact that Scott was resisting meant it was working. It was drawing the malicious spell to the surface. 

Stiles put the stopped back into the oil vial and wiped his hands on his jeans. The oil was starting to sting his hands, both because of its magical properties and the fact that it had gotten into the still healing bite mark on his hand. Stiles took a deep breath and reached for the dagger, picking the ceremonial bowl up with his other hand. It was almost too big to handle with one hand, but it was the only clay bowl they'd been able to find on a Sunday evening. It would have to do. 

Technically, Stiles was a little - okay, _a lot_ \- squeamish about blood. Being part of a werewolf pack unfortunately meant that he didn't always get a chance to indulge in his desire to stay away from anything slimy or bloody. This past week was a perfect example. First, his own alpha had come to his home and spilled his blood and then he'd had to deal with ugly little gnomes with sharp teeth all on his own. The ritual would just be the icing on the _"No Thank You"_ cake that Stiles had been gifted with. 

Outside the circle, Lydia was twisting her hands, watching with rapt attention. Gritting his teeth, Stiles shuffled closer to Scott and placed the tip of the blade against Scott's neck. In the long run it would only hurt Scott more if he didn't do this. But he had to do it right. Stiles briefly closed his eyes. He had to concentrate. 

Gradually, Stiles focused his thoughts on the ritual, the dagger and what he wanted to accomplish. With one precise movement, Stiles drove the tip of the dagger into Scott's neck, careful to cut deep enough to get the blood flowing but not deep enough to harm Scott too much. Stiles watched as thick, dark blood ran down the length of the blade and gathered at the point where it hit the handle of the dagger before dropping into the clay bowl underneath. The mountain ash dust and oil mixture on the blade prevented the wound from closing.

So far, so good. 

Stiles pushed a little more magic down his arm and into the blade. He concentrated on the purpose of the ritual: to draw out the essence of the harmful spell and remove any traces of it from Scott's system. Feeling the air practically crackle and hum with magic, Stiles smiled. Alongside the blood an oily black substance leaked out of the wound, down the blade and into the bowl, following the same path as the blood.

Stiles waited until he couldn't even see the smallest speck of black come out of Scott's wound before he released part of the magic and withdrew the blade. Nearly instantly, the small cut closed up, leaving only a bowlful of murky blood and a small, red smear on Scott's neck as evidence of what had happened. Stiles made a disgusted noise and pushed the bowl as far away from him as the circle would allow. He didn't even want to look at what was in the bowl. From the brief glimpse he'd caught, it almost looked like the spell was, for lack of a better word, _alive_ , swirling and twisting around in the bowl. 

"Come on, Scotty, wake up and be yourself," Stiles murmured, more to himself than Scott. "I've had a shitty week so far. I could really use my best bud by my side." 

For a few moments, nothing happened. Silence settled over the room as Stiles and Lydia waited, both of them focused on Scott. 

Scott jerked awake with a roar, revealing blood red eyes when he turned his head towards Stiles and half sat up, his movement restricted by the ropes. 

Scott's teeth were bared and Stiles reflexively tightened his grip on the dagger, but before he had to contemplate actually using it against his friend, he heard the high-pitched whine of the taser as Lydia pressed the trigger and the charge was released. Scott reared back, twitching and flailing against the ropes as thousands of volts of electricity ran through his body. Then the taser switched off. 

Scott blinked owlishly, panting loudly in the quiet of the room. He slowly flexed his muscles, frowning when he couldn't move his arms. Scott's gaze found Stiles. His eyes were a little unfocused, but warm brown instead of angry red. 

"Stiles?" Scott asked, the frown on his face deepening. "What the hell is going on?"

#

Stiles scrambled to untie Scott while Lydia started dismantling the protections on the circle. With Scott restored to his right mind, the roller coaster ride of the last few days finally had an end in sight. Stiles felt giddy now that the prospect of spending the night curled up with his pack was within his reach.

"The last thing I remember clearly is the pack meeting yest--I mean, last week." Scott said after Stiles and Lydia gave him the - abridged - version of what happened over the course of the week. "Okay, this is weird. I have a vague memory of dropping my mom off at work this morning, but it's like it happened in a dream, you know? Kind of fuzzy around the edges. All the details, the roads and the car and my mom, were exactly like they should be. But I don't even remember asking my mom if I could have her car today."

"Why do you need your mom's car today?" 

"Because--" Scott broke off, his eyes widening. "Because the pack is meeting up before dark to head into the woods and I'm supposed to drive Isaac, Boyd and Allison. Morgan wants us to be at the Nemeton when the moon rises." 

Stiles and Lydia exchanged an alarmed look. It wasn't exactly surprising news that Morgan's ultimate goal was power or that he would pick the night of the full moon to acquire it. But it gave them very little time to free the rest of the pack from the spell. One thing was certain, though: they couldn't let Morgan do whatever it was he set out to do, whether it was to siphon off power from the Nemeton or the pack or possibly both. 

"Plan D?" Lydia asked. 

Stiles gave her a half-shrug, absently chewing on his lip. 

"What's plan D?" Scott asked, rubbing a hand along his jaw. 

"The sheriff arrests Morgan and when he's out of the way, we free the pack." 

"I don't think that would work," Scott said. He rubbed his fingers together, then brought them up to his nose to sniff them. "Stiles, what is this stuff? And why is it all over me?"

"Cleansing oil," Stiles said. "If you keep rubbing at your face like that, the oil will heat up and it'll start to burn." 

"Awesome." Scott dropped his hand comically fast and made a face. "I need a shower. I can—where's Deaton? Is he out front, keeping people away?"

"Not exactly. He's at the station with my dad." 

Scott's eyes narrowed. Stiles shifted from one foot to the other as Scott focused his gaze on him. Scott wasn't blind -- or stupid. Stiles was very aware that he looked like a vampire/zombie crossbreed. Pale, with dark shadows under his eyes. Cuts and bruises on his neck and arms that spoke of more of the same hiding underneath his clothes. Scott already knew there was more to the story than he'd been told. As Stiles' best friend, Scott had the disputable honor of being the one who knew Stiles best. Morgan showing up and kicking Stiles out of the pack wouldn't make Stiles look like he'd slept in a tumble drier while clutching a ball of barbed wire. But he also knew that Stiles would hedge and deflect any questions about what had happened until he was ready to talk about it. 

Stiles sighed. "I went to Deaton for help and he pretty much told me there was nothing he could do for me because Derek had kicked me out of the pack and put Morgan in my place as the pack's emissary." 

Stiles jumped, startled, when Scott scooped up an empty beaker from on top of the row of cupboards along the side of the room and threw it against the opposite wall, letting out an angry growl. The beaker shattered, showering the floor in a multitude of glass shards of varying sizes. 

"There were some extenuating circumstances," Stiles said. 

"Not really," Lydia threw in. "Your feelings for Derek shouldn't have let him dismiss your concerns." 

"Deaton knows Stiles has feelings for Derek?" Scott asked, his face shifting back to human. 

" _You_ know I have feelings for Derek?" 

Scott scoffed. "Dude. Everyone knows you have a crush on Derek." 

Stiles gave him a wide-eyed look. "What?"

"Don't tell me you didn't know," Scott said. "You talked about his abs and his face and his arms, like, a _lot_ , Stiles. In public." Scott raised his eyebrows at him. "You're not subtle."

Behind them, Lydia snickered to herself as she collected the candles and the ropes and put them back into the duffel back.

"Stop laughing, Lydia. It's not funny," Stiles said, his voice rising both in volume and in pitch. "Oh my god, did Derek know about this?" 

"If he's in the same building, he's usually within hearing range." 

"I've changed my mind," Stiles said. "Let's leave the others to Morgan. I don't think I can look at them, knowing that they know about my very secret crush." 

"Well, it's a little more than just a crush, isn't it?" Lydia said, stepping up to them with the clay bowl in her hands. 

Stiles was too embarrassed to be disgusted by the black blood mix still swirling around in it. "Shut up. I didn't tell you that so you could shout it from the rooftops," he said. He could practically feel his face heating up as Scott's gaze rapidly flickered between him and Lydia.

Lydia put the bowl on the table and added a drop of the cleansing oil to it. "Derek and Stiles went on a date. Only Stiles didn't know it was a date until it was pretty much over," she said. With a smug smile on her face, she lit a match and dropped it into the bowl, leaning back a little. 

The contents of the bowl went up in a ball of flame, burning deep purple for a few moments until the flames fizzled out again. 

Scott grinned and leaned towards Stiles, his lips pursed. "Were there smoochies?" He made kissy noises until Stiles elbowed him in the ribs and shoved the duffel bag into his hands. 

"Here, take this out to the Jeep. It's parked around the corner. I'm gonna call my dad and tell him to send Deaton back to take care of the animals. You're taking the day off," he told Scott. 

"I want to talk to Deaton." 

"Believe me, while I would love to see you rip your boss a new one, we have things to do before tonight." Stiles rolled his eyes. "You can have a heart-to-heart when this is all over. I'm sure there will be a line, starting with Derek and going all the way down to Allison." 

"Who will be the scariest of us all," Scott said solemnly. 

"Amen to that."

#

While Stiles called his dad, Lydia packed up the rest of their belongings and handed Scott the duffel before heading out to the Jeep. Scott, meanwhile, finished feeding the animals - a task they'd interrupted with their ritual.

Stiles looked up when Scott came back into the back room, but didn't interrupt the call. "Why don't you come to the house for lunch, Dad?" 

"Will there be food or just strategy talks?" his dad said. "You didn't have any breakfast. Lydia either. I know this entire situation is eating at you, but you need to take care of yourself, too." 

"I do," Stiles protested, ignoring Scott's quiet snort from behind him. 

"You keep on thinking that, kiddo," his dad said mildly. "How about I pick up lunch on my way home? Things are pretty quiet today; I can stretch my break out a little as long as the station can reach me on the radio." 

"Okay," Stiles said. "Don't get pizza. And whatever you pick has to have one vegetable in it _at least_."

"Stop nagging me about that; I'm perfectly healthy for a man my age." In the background, someone called for the sheriff. "Gotta go. I'll see you kids at lunch." 

"Okay, bye, Dad." 

"Bye. Oh, and Stiles? Give Scott a hug. You've needed one for the last four days." With that, his dad hung up the phone.

Stiles made a face. His dad could have at least waited until Scott was out of hearing range. They'd all agreed the day before that none of the pack were allowed to have a guilty conscience because of what had happened. Knowing Scott, he'd take his dad's comment to heart and feel guilty about not being around. 

As predicted, as soon as Stiles had slipped the phone into his pocket, Scott barreled into his back, wrapping his arms around Stiles' torso from behind. Stiles' arms were trapped by Scott's, so he couldn't do more than stand there and enjoy the hug. 

"Sorry," Scott said quietly, pushing his nose into Stiles' neck. 

"Don't apologize," Stiles said. "None of this is your fault." 

A tingling sensation shot down Stiles' spine and he shivered, his muscles relaxing as Scott took away most of the lingering pain that Stiles had tried very hard not to acknowledge. 

"Thanks, bro," he said, squirming until Scott let him go. 

"Are you going to tell me what caused all of these bruises? Because I darkly remember you talking to me about Morgan--" 

"It wasn't you," Stiles said. "None of you." 

"You don't have to lie to protect me, you know?" Scott gave him a sideways glance and added, "I'm an alpha now." 

Stiles guffawed at the imitation, but sobered again quickly. "This is all on Morgan, trust me. Well. Morgan, and a misunderstanding with some gnomes." 

Scott nodded. "But you're okay?" 

"I'm okay," he confirmed. 

Scott locked the front door and took a step towards his bike. Then he stopped and reconsidered. "I should go with you and leave my bike here. If anyone stops by, Deaton can say I've taken the clinic's van to run errands. I'll just run over to my place when it's time and pick up my mom's car." 

"Why did you take your bike in the first place?" 

"Dude! I can't show up at work in my _mom_ 's car!"

Stiles was still laughing when Lydia pulled up in the Jeep a minute later and hit the horn a couple of times. "Are you two done hugging it out?" she asked through the open window. "Because we _are_ on a schedule, in case you've forgotten." 

"I never said you could drive my car," Stiles said. "Where did you even get the keys?" 

"Stole them out of your pocket," Lydia said shamelessly. "Now get in." 

Scott climbed into the back and Stiles took the passenger seat. Lydia drove off with squealing tires, leaving Stiles to rant about putting unnecessary stress on his poor old car. It wasn't until they were several streets away from the clinic that Scott spoke up.

"This isn't the way to Stiles' house, Lydia." 

"We need to make a few steps on the way home," Stiles said. He turned to Lydia. "But first on the list: find a coffee shop or something. I promised my dad we'd eat breakfast."

#

After breakfast - Lydia offered to give Stiles a few minutes alone with his bearclaw and Stiles threw one of the sugar sachets at her in retaliation before diving across the seat to retrieve it because the more sugar there was in his coffee, _the more sugar there was in his coffee_ (and sugar was always a good thing in Stiles' book) - the three ran a few errands crucial to the plan and then met up with Stiles' dad back at the Stilinski home.

Stiles glowered disapprovingly as his dad unpacked bags full of burgers and assorted side dishes. Scott gleefully ripped off the wrapper and dug into his burger as soon as it was put in front of him. Stiles curled his lip upward, but silently accepted the curly fries his dad passed over to him. 

"Pickles and onions, Stiles. That's two vegetables." 

"You know that's not what I meant," Stiles said, biting into a fry with demonstrative vigor. 

"You can either let it slide or I'll have to retroactively ground you for pulling the same stunt the last time we talked about you calling me when you're late getting home." His dad shrugged. "Your choice."

"Just accept the fact that you're outmaneuvered," Lydia said, daintily chewing on a potato wedge. "We have other things to discuss." 

"Right." Stiles shoved a handful of fries into his mouth and said, "We need a new plan." 

"Why?" the sheriff asked. "The ritual worked, didn't it? Scott is back - by the way, good to have you back, Scott - that means you can bring back the others. And don't talk with your mouth full." 

"There are several reasons why that wouldn't work," Lydia said. "You can only perform the counter spell one-on-one. Stiles would need to draw the poisonous spell out of each of them individually. It took six minutes to draw it out of Scott." 

"And that doesn't include the time we needed to set up the spell and cast the circle." 

"That would be the first hurdle - we would have to deal with the rest of the pack and Morgan trying to disturb us," Lydia continued. "And we'd have to start over with every pack member." 

"So don't wait until then."

"Morgan is keeping a pretty close eye on us. If we're not asleep or at work and school, we're at Derek's place." 

"I'd be paranoid too if I was planning a major spell and had the people instrumental to it under my control," Stiles said. "He'd definitely notice if we called them out one by one and they all disappeared one after the other. Which is why Scott is going back to pick up the others just like he planned to do after work." 

"Is that safe?" his dad asked. "Wouldn't Morgan be able to put him back under his spell?"

"Technically, he shouldn't be able to do that unless he redid the entire spell," Lydia said. "Stiles pulled all of the traces of the spell out of Scott's body. It's like trying to call a disconnected phone. It goes out of your phone, but it never reaches the disconnected one. If Morgan wanted him to do anything against his will now, his magic wouldn't be able to connect with the echoes of the spell controlling Scott's body." 

"Good to know," Scott piped up, ducking his head when Stiles reached out a hand to swat at him.

"Okay, so what's your plan?" 

Stiles leaned forward and started talking.

#

"It's risky," Lydia said, her head tilted contemplatively.

"Our entire lives are risky," Stiles said.

"Good point." 

His dad stood up and began collecting burger wrappers and dirty napkins. "I don't like it." 

"It's the only way I can see us winning, Dad." 

His lips pursed in annoyance, his dad said, "That doesn't mean I have to like it. It's a dangerous plan and I'd be feeling a lot better about it if I was more involved." 

"You _are_ involved, Dad," Stiles protested, following his dad into the kitchen. "You're pretty much the most important part of the plan." 

His dad raised his eyebrows and stuffed their trash into the trashcan under the sink. 

"I'm ninety per cent sure I'm only part of the plan because you couldn't find a way to leave me out of it without me knowing about it. And I'm a hundred per cent sure I'm not more involved because you're still trying to protect me from all things supernatural." 

"Dad—"

"We talked about this, Stiles. We talked about this so many times that I'm starting to think you're deaf on that ear." His dad took the cleaning rag from where it was folded next to the sink, wet it and started wiping down the counters. They weren't especially dusty or food-stained, so Stiles assumed his dad just needed something to occupy his hands.

"I let it slide when you went after those gremlin things alone because I didn't want to stress you out so soon after a panic attack." His dad pointed a finger at him, the wet rag swinging from his fingers. A few drops of water hit Stiles in the face and he leaned back a little. "If you insist on taking unnecessary risks rather than letting me help you, Stiles, then I'm going to have to go around you. Don't think I won't," he threatened. "No matter what you say, Derek Hale still owes me. He won't like it, but at least he'll tell me when my son goes out to confront a kelpie." 

Stiles was a great liar, but was under no illusions. It had to be some kind of paternal sixth sense that allowed his dad to know he was lying every single time. The only way he could reasonably keep something from his dad was not to tell him about it at all. Apparently, though, even that wasn't fool-proof if his dad knew about the kelpie.

"Yeah, Stiles, I know about the kelpie. And the shape-shifting bears. And the ton of other things you never bothered to tell me about." 

"I was just worried about you." 

"And I was worried about you," his dad said. "Don't you think I deserve to know the truth about how you're trying to get yourself killed this week?" 

"Dad! It's not like that! How can you--" 

"I'm sorry," his dad said, sounding tired. "I didn't mean it like that. I just need to know what's going on in this town and with you. Leaving me in the dark is not helping me, Stiles. It doesn't protect me from anything. These creatures are going to find me or they're not. Whether or not I know about them isn't going to matter to _them_ \- but it might make a difference for me. Think about it." His dad took a step closer and put his hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Every time you go out, I have to wonder if you're really just going to meet your friends or if I'm going to get a phone call that they found your mangled body somewhere. I never know what you're up against until after the fact and let me tell you, son, not knowing makes your imagination _soar_. Whatever it is, it won't ever be as bad as what I'm picturing in my head."

"Dad…" Stiles trailed off, unsure what to say. It wasn't like he could deny everything and pretend things were a-okay with them. His dad knowing about the supernatural hadn't magically fixed things between them. Sure, there was more understanding and he had more leeway with some of the thing he'd had to lie about before. Things got better. They talked more and his dad even helped out with the investigation of some of the supernatural cases in Beacon Hills. But it didn't make Stiles' worries go away. It didn't make things safer for his dad. It didn't fix the year they'd spent not really talking to each other. 

"I know." His dad waved him off. "I have to go back to the station anyway. Let's talk about it later."

"All right." 

His dad was already at the front door when Stiles called out, "Dad!" and ran after him. 

Stiles threw his arms around his dad and squeezed. His dad didn't disappoint him, squeezing back just as tightly. The Stilinski men were huggers. No matter how bad things were, they'd never been bad enough to stop them from hugging. 

"Stiles, I—"

"Ah!" Stiles interrupted. "No chick flick moments."

"You already hunt monsters, Stiles," his dad said dryly. "If you insist on quoting that show, I'm going to insist you go all the way and call me 'sir' from now on." 

Stiles grinned and clapped him on the back. "Go protect the people of Beacon Hills. And don't forget--"

"I remember the plan. I still don't like it, but I'll be there." 

"Thanks, Dad." 

His dad nodded and left, leaving Stiles to lean against the door and contemplate how many awkward-slash-painful conversations there were in his future. Every day seemed to add a new one to his list. 

A rustling of clothes behind him made Stiles aware of Scott's presence. The entire pack - Lydia included - must have gone on a secret ninja training course one day and forgot to bring him because they could all move without making any noise at all. It regularly gave Stiles mini-heart attacks whenever one of them creeped up on him. That's how Stiles knew it was Scott. He, at least, had the decency to shuffle his feet or knock against the door jamb when he came in. Lydia would have sneaked up on him and scared the crap out of him. 

"You heard all that, didn't you?" 

"Most of it," Scott admitted.

Stiles closed his eyes, pressing his forehead a little harder into the wooden door. "Come to say 'I told you so'?"

"I figured you already knew it was a stupid plan to keep your dad out of the big stuff." 

"Then why did you let me?"

"Let you, Stiles? Have you met yourself? When have you ever let me do something you were violently opposed to?" 

Stiles sighed and turned around. "Next time, remind me of this." 

Scott shrugged. "If you think it'll help."

"Shut up." He walked past Scott, bumping his shoulder into Scott's as he passed. "Come on, we have things to do, our pack to save, evil warlocks to defeat." 

"The family business," Scott intoned. 

Lydia only shook her head at them when they stumbled back into the dining room, roaring with laughter.

#

The sun was already riding low over the tree line when Lydia and Stiles finished their preparations and settled down to wait. Scott had left a while ago, running through the woods to pick up his mom's car and go back to pretending his was a mindless drone. It couldn't be long now until Morgan showed up with the pack in tow. Morgan had picked the perfect day for whatever he had planned. Sunset and moonrise were at roughly the same time - within minutes of the moon rising, the sun would set.

In his pocket, Stiles' phone buzzed. "It's Scott. Two more minutes."

"I'm all set up," Lydia said, nodding towards the side where her bag lay, propped up against a tree. 

"You know what to do," Stiles said. 

Across the clearing, Morgan stepped out from between the trees, followed by a blank-faced, quiet pack. 

"All right, it's showtime."

#

At the sight of him and Lydia, a flicker of uncertainty passed over Morgan's face. He covered it quickly, putting on a slight smile. The smug, superior expression on his face was enough to set Stiles on edge, making him curl his free hand into a fist.

"Stiles, wasn't it? I'm not sure I know your friend…" he said, trailing off with a look at Lydia.

"Don't even try," Stiles pressed out through clenched teeth. "We already know that this is all on you. You're doing something to them."

Morgan's smile morphed into a smirk and he dropped any pretense of being someone he wasn't. "Now, now, little witchling. I'm the emissary of a wolf pack - shouldn't you be paying me some respect?" 

Stiles felt a snarl bubbling up in his throat, but he didn't have the anatomy to make it sound impressive. Instead, he tightened his grip on his bat and shook his head. "No." 

"You're almost cute when you're mad. Tell me, do you honestly think you and your little girlfriend have the slightest chance against me and _my_ wolf pack?" Morgan chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Your bat isn't going to help you much either. You're not going to get close enough to touch me. In fact, why don't we make this a little more interesting?" He glanced at Scott who was standing on his right. "Scott."

Scott looked at Morgan, his expression blank. Then, as if on command, he changed into his wolf face and roared, showing off his impressive fangs. He looked wild, savage. Stiles had never been prouder of Scott's much improved acting abilities.

Stiles twirled the bat and then brought it down in front of his body, letting the end of it smack into the open palm of his other hand. He smirked. 

Across the clearing, Morgan frowned. 

"You see, the third mistake you made was calling Lydia my 'little girlfriend'," Stiles said, raising the bat a little before letting it slap back against his palm. "She takes that personally."

Morgan's gaze flickered over to Lydia who had her arms crossed in front of her chest, a look of bored condescension on her face. 

"The second one was not killing me when you realized I wasn't under your spell - you did have opportunity and the perfect weapon. You could have sent Derek to kill me instead of sending him to scare me off. You could have sent any one of them to finish me, instead of telling them to simply cut me out." Stiles shrugged. "Sure, my dad would be breathing down your and the pack's necks and whoever you sent to kill me would have been in prison, but that's a small price compared to what the _first_ mistake you made will cost you." 

Morgan turned his head to the side, eyes flitting over to the pack standing behind Morgan. They were eerily silent and statue-like, completely motionless. "Enough small talk!"

"I agree," Stiles said, letting go of the end of the bat. He turned his wrist and the bat dropped to the ground. When the tip touched the earth, Stiles grinned. He felt strong, cushioned between the solid, magic-soaked earth under his feet and the bright, full moon overhead. "But first, let me tell you what your first mistake was." 

Keeping his eyes fixed on Morgan's, Stiles said, "Scott." 

Scott snarled again, but instead of attacking anyone, he slipped his hand into his pocket. Seconds later, the rest of the pack flinched back, hands clapped over their ears. Scott pulled his hand out of his pocket and tossed the ultrasound remote to Stiles, who caught it with his free hand. 

Stiles smirked. "Looks like one of your dogs has slipped his leash." 

Scott rolled his eyes at him and Stiles' smirk intensified.

Morgan shot him a look of pure rage, lips curling in distaste as he saw the pack writhing on the floor. Lydia had modified the Argents' ultrasound generators for maximum effect. It had taken her all afternoon, but the result was incredible. All the betas were incapacitated and while Derek was still functioning, he wasn't a match for Scott who was wearing the best ear plugs money could buy. Or at least the best ear plugs money could buy in the drugstore on Main. If he looked closely, Stiles could see the uncomfortable twitch in Scott's shoulders, belying the effectiveness of the ear plugs. But even though they weren't 100 per cent effective, he still had the advantage over Derek right now. 

Off to Morgan's other side, Lydia took advantage of Allison's distraction at her pack mates' struggle and tasered her. Stiles made a mental note never to get on the wrong side of Lydia and her taser.

"Looks like it's just you and me now," he said, leaning on his bat. 

Morgan let out a wordless scream and launched himself at Stiles. Startled despite himself, Stiles only just managed to bring his bat up to block Morgan's attack. It wasn't that much of a surprise to find out that Morgan fought with his fists rather than magic. Lydia's theory that Morgan simply had a knack for suggestion and mind control seemed to be accurate. He certainly couldn't have much innate power if his first instinct was to curl his fingers into a fist and punch someone. 

Stiles usually preferred a physical fight as well. He ran with a pack of werewolves. They regularly encountered supernatural creatures of all sorts, benign and hostile. If there was one thing he couldn't afford it was to put all his stakes on his magic. He needed to be able to keep up with the wolves and - most importantly - their enemies on a physical level. Realistically he was no match for most supernatural beings, of course, but the surprise of a fist to the jaw from the puny human had saved his life several times already. 

There was no surprise factor with Morgan. The man was taller, heavier and definitely stronger than Stiles. Ducking another one of Morgan's attacks, Stiles stumbled back a few steps and swung his bat at Morgan. Morgan twisted away, but he wasn't fast enough to escape the attack entirely. The bat caught him on the arm and Morgan grunted in pain. 

"Any time now, Lydia!" Stiles yelled. 

Suddenly, the air around them changed. The slight breeze that had been blowing through the forest was gone. All the sounds of the forest at night time were muffled and sounded like they were coming from far away. 

"Finally," Stiles muttered under his breath. He dodged Morgan's next punch and yelled, "Scott!" 

Across the clearing, Scott roared and bore down on Derek, knocking him out with a powerful punch. In seconds, Scott was at Morgan's side, one hand on Morgan's arm, the other wrapped around his throat. Stiles swallowed and looked away, the wounds on his chest suddenly feeling raw and throbbing painfully again. 

"Do you have everything you need?" 

Stiles took out the vial of oil and nodded. "Just make sure he doesn't interrupt the ritual." 

Scott grinned, letting his fangs flash at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, I don't think he's in any danger of doing that." He turned his face to his captive. "Are you, Morgan?" 

Stiles didn't bother to wait around for Morgan's reply. The glimmer of fear in the man's eyes said it clearly enough already and Stiles had work to do. The longer it took him to free the pack, the longer they had to endure the painful ultrasound. And Derek wouldn't stay knocked out forever. 

Quickly, but thoroughly, Stiles went from Allison to the other wolves and finally to Derek, coating them with the cleansing oil. By the time he spread the last of it on Derek's brow, his hands were burning and his heart was beating like a jackhammer. 

Stepping - almost stumbling - back, Stiles reached out a hand and found the rough, weathered edge of the giant tree stump in the middle of the clearing. Under his fingers, the magic pulsed. 

Stiles closed his eyes and pictured the bonds that connected him to his pack. The feathery, springy band that tied him to Allison and Isaac was actually his connection to Scott. Allison and Isaac's strands branched off from it. His connection to Boyd was chain-like and heavy, solid like Boyd himself. Wrapped around it was a frayed, wispy rope and ended in the middle of nowhere, going off into the ether without a connection to Stiles himself. Stiles gave it a soothing mental touch and moved on to the twisted and complicated strand that tied him to Derek. Branching off from this one was the thread between him and Cora. It wasn't particularly thick, but it was solid enough that Stiles could see it clearly. It was a lot less tangled than his connection to Derek, and there was a tentative tendril of white reaching out from Cora to Boyd. 

Interesting. 

There were several other connections that Stiles dismissed from his mind. His dad and Danny and Scott's mom - so many people that were important to him. Right now, however, the pack was more important. Using his connections to Lydia (bright and candy-colored) and Scott as his anchor, Stiles reached out to the pack. 

Instantly, the air around him seemed ten times thicker and Stiles swayed, an invisible pressure weighing him down as he started to draw on the poison in his pack's blood. He didn't have the benefit of the purified dagger to channel the poison this time. There were five pack members and he only had two hands. 

Stiles and Lydia had spent all afternoon rewriting the ritual and preparing the clearing. The pre-prepared circle enclosed the entire clearing, weaving in and out through the trees along the edges of it. They'd spread the fallen leaves back over it after making sure they wouldn't interfere with the circle's properties. They'd left only a small opening in the circle, a blank spot that Lydia filled as soon as Stiles gave the signal. This time Lydia didn't need to protect the circle from outside. It allowed her to keep a hold of Allison to stop her from interfering with the ritual. Stiles had drawn the sigils needed for the ritual directly into the earth and when he'd anointed them with the oil, he'd made sure that none of the pack mates had disturbed the sigils.

At Stiles' feet, right in front of the Nemeton, was a dip in the earth. Stiles had dug it earlier, cradled between two big roots of the tree stump. Instead of the ceremonial bowl, he would lead the poison directly into the earth, collecting it in his makeshift earthen bowl. 

The pack stopped clutching their ears and Stiles narrowed his eyes. But none of them were breaking free. Isaac was the first to start screaming, pressing his arms against his mid-section. Allison followed only a second after him, writhing on the ground as Lydia helplessly watched her best friend suffer. The glowing white thread that connected Stiles to Allison and Isaac flared with light and then started to shake. If he looked closely enough, Stiles could see the black poison drain from their bodies and run along the bond towards him. 

Soon after, Boyd dropped down to one knee, clutching at his chest. The viscous black liquid seeped out of his body and along the bond, twisting around each chain link as it snaked its way towards Stiles. Cora was the next to start screaming. Reflexively turning her hands to claws, she drove her fingers into the earth. Stiles could see the muscles in her neck straining against an invisible force.

Sweat beading on his brow, Stiles dug his fingernails into the Nemeton and pushed his spark out along the bond that connected him to Derek. Derek didn't start screaming or convulsing. He simply dropped to his knees, his eyes closed in silent pain. It took twice as much to collect all the poison from Derek's body than it did from any of the betas. When he was finally done drawing it out of his pack, Stiles looked at the large, quivering mass of poison weighing on the pack bonds. It felt a lot heavier than it looked. 

It took more concentration than he thought it would to separate the poison from the bonds until - finally - it dropped down into the divot in the earth. With each drop that fell down, Stiles felt at the same time lighter and more exhausted. It was only his Stilinski stubbornness that made him hang on until every last drop of the poison was gone from the bonds. 

Stiles' knees buckled and he sat down heavily, panting like he'd just run a marathon. He felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle on his body and fought to keep his eyes open. 

"Stiles!" Scott punched Morgan in the face, not even waiting until Morgan hit the ground before he was at Stiles' side, lightly patting his cheeks. "Stiles, are you okay?" 

"Peachy keen," Stiles said. He looked at the black puddle in front of him. In the rapidly fading evening light there were absolutely no reflections in the liquid. "I think I might puke, though." 

"Careful, Scott," Lydia said, appearing at their side. She dumped the rest of the oil into the puddle and struck a match, dropping it with a vaguely disgusted expression on her face. The ball of flame that rose as the poison burned up seemed to shake the rest of the pack out of their stupor. Within seconds, Derek had Morgan pinned to the nearest tree, his eyes flaring red. 

"I'm gonna go stop Derek from killing the guy," Scott said. 

"Take your time," Stiles muttered darkly. The original plan didn't include killing Morgan, but he wasn't exactly opposed to it, either. 

Scott studiously ignored him. "Watch Stiles for me?" he added, looking at Lydia. 

"Like you have to ask." Lydia turned to Stiles. "Come on, do you want to try and get up? I have some Gatorade in my bag." 

Slowly, Stiles made it back onto his feet. He still felt queasy, but gratefully sipped at the Gatorade Lydia handed him. A few feet away, Isaac, Boyd and Scott were holding Derek back from ripping Morgan's head off. Morgan didn't seem too happy about it, though. That might have had to do with the fact that Cora and Allison had made their way over to him and Allison had kicked him in the balls. Without werewolf senses, it was impossible to hear what she was whispering to Morgan, but Cora seemed impressed by whatever it was. Not that it surprised Stiles in the least. He knew Allison. She was without a doubt the scariest of the betas and she wasn't even a werewolf. 

Wrinkling his nose, Stiles put the bottle down and stood up, swaying slightly. His pack was back in their right mind, and none of them were paying him any attention. Butt-saving called for thank-you-hugs, and lots of them. His entire body was itching with the need to touch everyone and reassure himself that he wasn't just dreaming. Again.

Stiles managed four steps before his legs gave out. He didn't fall, though. Suddenly, Derek was in front of Stiles, catching him in his arms. 

"Hey, Derek." 

"Stiles. I--"

Moving almost on autopilot, Stiles reached up and put his hand on the back of Derek's neck, tugging slightly. Derek followed the silent direction, leaning forward. Smiling, Stiles tilted his head and pressed his lips to Derek's. For a few moments, nothing existed except the gentle pressure of Derek's lips and the feel of Derek's soft hair against his fingertips. 

When Stiles pulled back, he didn't need to open his eyes to know the pack was all around them. Allison was at his side, an arm slung around Stiles' shoulders. Isaac was next to Derek, sandwiched between him and Cora, bouncing on his heels with the need to dart in and _touch_. Boyd, on Derek's other side, looked stoic, but Stiles could read the gratitude in his eyes. 

Stiles let his hand slip from Derek's neck and moved it over to rest on Boyd's arm. He put his other hand on Isaac's arm and pulled until Isaac stepped a little closer. Cora rolled her eyes at him but didn't hesitate to reach out and touch his wrist. Surrounded by his pack with Scott at his back and Lydia on his other side, Stiles felt, for the first time in a week, completely at peace. 

Abruptly, Derek twisted out of their huddle and took a few steps away from them. Stiles followed him with his eyes and saw Morgan disappear into the woods. 

"That's okay. You can let him go," Stiles said. He tightened his hold on Isaac's jacket and burrowed a little deeper into Allison's shoulder. "Group hug definitely trumps running after an evil warlock."

"We have a contingency," Lydia explained. "Don't worry about him. He won't get far." 

"If he escapes, we'll just hunt him down," Allison said. 

Stiles' phone buzzed and he squirmed when he felt Scott dig into his pockets trying to find it. 

"No need," Scott announced. He slipped the phone back into Stiles' pocket. "Your dad just arrested him." 

"The sheriff was your contingency?" Derek asked. "What about Morgan's magic? Isn't Deaton a little more qualified to handle that?" 

Scott growled.

"Deaton is not a good idea right now," Lydia explained. She raised an eyebrow at Scott who stopped growling immediately. He didn't say anything, but he pursed his lips in a hint of a pout.

"For now he can stay locked up at the station. My dad isn't affected by Morgan, and you can bet that he'll keep an extra close eye on the guy until Lydia and I figure out what to do about his magic." 

"Tomorrow," Lydia added pointedly. "How about we move this party out of the woods and to a place with a working shower and preferably some couches?" 

Isaac wrinkled his nose. "Morgan's smell is going to be all over the loft." 

"We can go to my house," Stiles said. "Dad is going to work for the rest of the night, and he'll want a more detailed update anyway when he comes home in the morning." 

"Let's go then," Allison said. She kept her arm around Stiles, tugging him along towards the tree line. With Scott and Cora on his other side and Isaac and Boyd dogging their steps, it still didn't escape Stiles' notice that Derek hung back and that Lydia slowed her steps to match his. Trusting that Lydia would do her best to help him get what he wanted, Stiles let the rest of his pack steer him towards the cars and take him home.

#

The faint sounds from the pack arguing over who got to drive in a car with Stiles and who had to take one of the other vehicles back slowly disappeared from Lydia's hearing range. No doubt Derek could still hear them, although he was probably more focused on Stiles' heartbeat than anything else.

They walked in silence for a few minutes until Lydia tossed back her hair and turned her head to face Derek.

"Stiles told me about what happened right before this all started," she said.

Derek took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I can still go back to the loft if--"

"No. _That_ would be even worse than pretending nothing had happened." She took in his expression and frowned at him. "Which you're also _not_ going to do."

"What am I supposed to do then?" Derek asked, running a hand over his face. He looked almost as tired as Stiles had seemed to be since she got here. 

Lydia sighed. "Derek, this isn't your fault. It's not anyone's fault but Morgan's. Stiles knows that you weren't in your right mind. But that doesn't make it hurt less."

"Then how do I fix it?" Derek sighed and shook his head. "Can I even fix it?"

Lydia looked at him sharply. "Of course you can! In case your short-term memory is shot, let me remind you that Stiles just kissed you." 

"He's exhausted. His emotions are all over the place right now." 

"This is Stiles. His emotions are always all over the place. He wrote an epic poem about curly fries for English class once," Lydia said. She stopped and crossed her arms over her chest. "But, unlike you were for the past week, he's still in his right mind. Stiles kissed you, and he meant it. And if you don't want the same thing, tell him. Don't drag this out." 

Derek clenched his teeth, staring at a point somewhere past her left shoulder.

"Derek?" 

"I won't," Derek said. "End it, I mean. Stiles is…" He made a helpless gesture, looking hopeful and pained at the same time.

"Yeah," Lydia agreed. She reached out and lightly squeezed his arm. "Come on. Let's join the others and reaffirm the pack bonds. You can talk to Stiles in the morning." 

Derek nodded and followed Lydia out of the woods.

#

Stiles woke up way too early the next morning for someone who hadn't been sleeping very well for almost a week. At least he was surrounded by his pack. Stiles' bed wasn't big enough for all of them, so the betas had dragged Stiles' mattress and the one from the guest bedroom into his room and built a nest out of blankets and pillows right there on the floor. They'd all curled up together, taking comfort in each other's presence. Isaac had asked about Morgan and the details of what had gone on, but Stiles' exhaustion had won out over his need to actively reconnect with his pack. He'd fallen asleep listening to Scott and Lydia explain about the spell and Morgan's possible plans.

Stretching a little, Stiles yawned and blinked against the early morning sunlight. A quick glance at his alarm clock showed that it was after seven already. 

Blinking, Stiles did a quick head count and came up one werewolf short. Shaking his head, he sat up a little reluctantly - he had _missed_ this, missed _them_ \- and slid his legs out from underneath Boyd's arm. 

What had he expected? Derek was less gloomy and growly these days, but the man had never met a guilt issue he hadn't heartily embraced, no matter if it was breaking Isaac's favorite mug or attacking someone under a mind control spell. Stiles huffed, not sure who he was more annoyed with: Derek for falling back on old behavior patterns or himself for not anticipating it. 

After a quick trip to the bathroom, Stiles wandered down the stairs. His dad was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and paging through the newspaper. 

"Morning, Dad." Stiles leaned into the doorway to the living room, catching a glimpse of the empty living room past it. 

Lowering the newspaper, his dad said, "He's outside on the deck."

"Who?" 

"Scott told me about the--" His dad waved his hand and his next words were nearly inaudible over the rustling of the paper. At least that was Stiles' excuse. "-- _thing_ between you."

"Between me and Scott?" 

His dad gave him a look over the edge of the newspaper that said 'don't play dumb with me, kid, I'm the sheriff'. 

"And you're okay with it?" 

"I wouldn't call it okay--"

Stiles face fell. 

"--but I suppose there's worse. He makes good coffee at least." His dad looked up again, taking in Stiles' expression. "Don't look at me like that. I'd be saying the exact same thing if you suddenly rekindled your interest in Lydia or wanted to start something with Boyd. I can't even pretend that I fully understand this pack thing, but in my experience things get complicated when relationships change."

"I know that, Dad. That's why I didn't make a move on him two years ago." 

"A fact that I am unspeakably grateful for," his dad said. "Go talk to him." 

"Thanks, Dad."

#

Derek was leaning against the old, overgrown swing set in the far corner of the Stilinski backyard. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back to rest against the aged wood. He gave off the impression of being completely unaware of anything going on outside his own head, but Derek had probably known Stiles was awake from the moment he'd opened his eyes upstairs.

At first Derek didn't react to Stiles' presence. Stiles ignored the silence and studied Derek's face, taking in the straight line of his nose and the scruffy beard that felt a lot softer than it looked. It didn't take long for Derek to falter in his stoicism and look at Stiles. It was as if someone pulled the plug and Derek simply deflated, his shoulders hunching down. He hung his head and let out a heavy sigh. 

"Your dad--" 

"--isn't really used to the fact that werewolves have a) better hearing and b) a reduced sense of privacy," Stiles said, coming to a stop in front of Derek. 

Derek opened his eyes and looked at him, squinting against the sun. "I'd understand it if you didn't--"

"Seriously?" Stiles interrupted. "I mean, _seriously_ , Derek? We haven't even started dating yet and you're already trying to weasel out of it? That's got to be some kind of record."

"I'm not trying to-- I was just trying to give you options. It can't be easy to--"

"It's never easy, even without the mind controlling warlock thrown into the mess. Look at Scott and Allison and Isaac. But they worked it out. And what about Lydia and Jackson? They loved each other and look what happened! Look at my dad - he found the love of his life and she died." Stiles gave him a sad smile. "It's never easy and it always hurts, but it doesn't stop people from trying, does it?" 

Derek straightened up. But instead of crossing his arms over his chest like Stiles had expected, he kept his hands behind his back, his shoulders tense. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Stiles." 

Stiles shook his head. "It wasn't your fault." 

"That's what Lydia said." 

"Have you considered believing her? She _is_ pretty smart." 

Derek snorted, but his amusement was short-lived. "I wish I could take it back, what I did to you," he said, his gaze crossing over Stiles' chest before he averted his eyes. "I can apologize but it won't make up for what I did. God, Stiles. I'm so fucking sorry. I don't even know how you can be in the same room with me after that." 

Stiles hummed. "Correction: after what _Morgan_ did to me - and to the rest of the pack. You included." 

Derek looked up at Stiles through his eyelashes with uncertainty in his eyes.

"A warlock attacked the pack and I got lucky. I was immune for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture," Stiles said. He waited for a second, but Derek didn't even crack a smile. With a sigh, he continued, "It's not something you or the others did - _you_ aren't responsible for _his_ actions. You were just the tool he used. You're just as much a victim of Morgan as I am. Maybe more because I was still in my right mind, I could still act on my own free will whereas you were all under his spell. This isn't your fault. It's not the pack's fault. It's not my fault. It's Morgan's fault, and the sooner we all realize it, the sooner we'll start to heal." 

Derek gave him a sad smile. "I wasn't just talking about the pack issue."

"Yeah, I figured." Stiles sighed. "I--I was really happy that day, you know. After our--I'm not even sure any more. It's like Morgan was messing with my head after all because half the time I thought I'd dreamed it all up or that it wasn't really a date--"

"It was," Derek interrupted. "I made sure everyone else was busy so we could finally--" He broke off and looked down at his shoes. 

"Yeah," Stiles said weakly, his heart thundering. 

Derek took a deep breath and ran his hands over his face. "Everything is kind of fucked up right now. It's like I spent the last week in a nightmare, but when I open my eyes, I'm still trapped and the nightmare has become my reality." 

"Well, the nightmare's over," Stiles said. "Morgan isn't actually that strong, magically speaking. When I've recovered, Lydia and I are going to bind what meager powers he has and then he can rot in jail for the next few years. He's wanted in several states - big surprise there." 

"That…actually makes me feel worse. He overpowered me so easily. I was distracted, but that's not an excuse." Derek shook his hand, running his thumb across his brow. "He got me when I came back to the loft. I was--god, I was practically whistling. And then I heard a noise, turned around and got some kind of potion right in the face. And then nothing. I have glimpses of some of the things that happened over the week, but most of it is still a blur." 

"Scott said the same thing," Stiles said. "We cornered him this morning and performed the counter spell."

"In the woods, when I realized what was going on," Derek said, frowning. "I wanted to kill him. I wanted to rip out his heart and make him eat it. I wanted to flay him alive and watch as he slowly bled out on the floor. And then... then I wanted to claw at myself for falling for it. For not being stronger. For not protecting my pack. For not protecting you." 

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek. His vision was a little watery, but as long as Derek pretended not to notice, so could Stiles. 

"At first I was convinced it was black magic or something," Stiles said. "I mean, _obviously_ it had to be. But then I started thinking and everyone I talked to - or tried to talk to - was so reasonable. So normal. None of you acted unusual apart from the whole ...thing. And, hey, you know me! I never had an insecure thought I didn't take to heart and analyze in my mind detail for horrifying detail. I figured that maybe I'd finally outstayed my welcome. I'm not a werewolf. I don't want the bite. I'm not a badass hunter or a super genius banshee. I bring absolutely nothing to the table here. And, well. I was kind of crushed on a more personal level, too. Because I also thought we'd finally... well. I figured I was wrong about that, too."

"You weren't," Derek said. "God, I wanted you. I wanted you when you were sixteen and mouthing off at me like I couldn't rip you in half without an effort. But you _were_ just sixteen and we had so much shit to deal with and there was never enough time to talk about anything. After you turned eighteen, it never seemed like the right time. And when it finally looked like it might be okay--"

"--an asshole warlock fucked it up for us." He looked at Derek. "You said you wanted me." 

Derek nodded.

"As in, past tense?"

Derek slowly shook his head. "I think there was never a time when I didn't want you. Even when I was brainwashed… I'm still trying to get a week of memories sorted out, but I want you, Stiles. I always want you." 

Stiles let out the breath he'd been holding. "That's... good to hear. Really good to hear. And it goes both ways, in case you're wondering." 

"I think I got that when you kissed me last night," Derek said, lips curling up in his first genuine smile for the day. 

Stiles shifted restlessly. His arm brushed against Derek's, their fingers touching. Stiles could barely hear Derek's sharp intake of breath over the pounding of his heart. Derek slowly slid his fingers between Stiles'.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," Stiles said. He took a shaky breath and squeezed Derek's hand. Derek tightened his grip on Stiles' hand and then gave it a strong tug, pulling Stiles against him.

"I like this plan." 

"I figured you would." 

When Stiles' dad came to tell them half an hour later that the others were waiting to head out for breakfast, they were still kissing.

**epilogue: one year later**

"Where did everyone go?" Stiles looked around the empty living room, going so far as to peek behind the couch to see where everyone was hiding.

The squeak of shoes on their new vinyl floor tiles (fake parquet flooring which looked amazing but smelled like cheap plastic according to all of the wolves) had Stiles whirling around. 

"My spidey sense is tingling!" 

"Uh-huh." Derek crossed his arms in front of his chest. "And what is it telling you?" 

"In the five minutes that I spent in the bathroom, everyone has mysteriously found somewhere else to be. For a pack that just helped us move into this place that's decidedly strange behavior. Scratch that. It's _very_ strange behavior for our pack to pass up free food. I feel like there's a thing everyone knows about and I don't," Stiles said with a pout. "I'm not a fan of surprises." 

"You love surprises," Derek countered. 

"Not evil ones," Stiles said.

"This isn't an evil one, Stiles. It's a good one." 

"Promise?"

"Promise." Derek dropped a quick kiss on Stiles' lips. "Wait here. I'll be back in a minute." 

Stiles busied himself with cleaning up after the impromptu housewarming/thanks-for-carrying-all-of-our-furniture party. Well, not exactly cleaning up, but he grabbed all the open chips bags and closed them so the chips wouldn't go stale. 

Stiles was in the kitchen when Derek came back not even a minute after he'd run upstairs. Stiles was slightly jealous of the way he wasn't even breathing hard. Freak had probably jumped the stairs again.

"We have a house." Stiles smiled fondly, not caring if he looked particularly sappy. Derek had lost any right to mock him after Stiles had walked in on him bawling his eyes out during Land Before Time. (Stiles hadn't told him it used to be Scott's favorite movie ever and he'd built up an immunity after spending his early childhood watching Littlefoot's mom die over and over again until Scott grew out of his dinosaur phase.) 

"I know." He leaned in to kiss Stiles and then tugged on his hand. "Come on. I do have a surprise waiting." 

"Is it a puppy?"

"It's not a puppy." 

Stiles followed Derek up the stairs and down the hall to the back of the house where the master bedroom was located. "Can we get a puppy anyway?" 

"No." 

"How about for my birthday?"

"It's September."

"So?"

"So, your birthday is in April." 

"Make it a late birthday present."

"No." 

"Are you sure? Because that sounded more like a maybe to me." 

Derek gave Stiles an annoyed glare. "All right. _Maybe_ we can get a puppy. At a later date. After we talk to the pack and make sure no one is allergic and everyone is okay with getting a puppy." 

Stiles thought about it for a moment, then he smiled broadly. "Awesome. We're getting a puppy." 

"Maybe, Stiles. I said _maybe_."

"What do you think of the name Brutus? But only if it's a small breed. Small dogs need large names, don't you think? Oh! Or we could name the puppy Lassie and teach it to come get us if one of the pack is in trouble. I bet I could train it to nod when I ask 'Did Scotty fall down the well?'"

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why do I even bother?" 

"'Cause you love me." 

"And I'm struggling every day to remember why," Derek said. "Do you want your surprise or not?" 

Stiles poked his finger into Derek's stomach and then hooked it into the waistband of his jeans. He pulled at them and then tried to peer into the gap between Derek's stomach and the belt buckle. "Is it your dick? Is that my present?" 

Derek swatted at Stiles' hand. "You don't want your surprise, then." 

Stiles snatched his hand back from where it was poised to grope Derek's ass. He gave his lover an innocent look. "I'll be good, I promise." 

Derek gestured to the closed bedroom door and Stiles reached out to push it open. Then his eyes went wide. 

In the middle of the room, pushed against the far wall, was the custom-made bed Stiles had always dreamed of. It was - in theory - large enough for the entire pack. They'd be squished together, but they would be comfortable enough. Apart from the huge size, the bed could also boast about a polished headboard made out of a sturdy dark wood. Set into the dark wood was a gleaming, shimmering mother-of-pearl inlay of a wolf howling at the moon. It was what had originally attracted Stiles to the bed. 

Stiles grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it, along with the plaid shirt her wore on top of it, off over his head. With a whoop of joy, he jumped backwards onto the bed, toeing his shoes off. When Derek didn't immediately follow, Stiles undid the button on his jeans and waggled his eyebrows enticingly. 

Derek slowly shook his head and heaved a mournful sigh. "The worst part is that it's still working." He shut the door and quickly stripped off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor next to Stiles' shirts. 

"You don't regret a second of time we spend together," Stiles said confidently, patting the bed beside him. 

Derek chucked off his shoes and joined Stiles on the bed, pressing his nose against Stiles' neck, his eyes falling close at the heady scent of Stiles' happiness and arousal. "I really don't," he said quietly.

"That good to hear," Stiles murmured, turning his head so they could kiss. 

"I want to suck you until you beg me to fuck you and make you come," Derek said when Stiles pulled back from the kiss, surprised at how rough his voice sounded. "And then I'm going to take the lube and slick myself up because I'm not going to fuck you today. No. I'm going to ride your dick until you're squirming with the need to come and then… well. That's part two of the surprise."

Stiles swallowed a few times in quick succession, needing to get his throat back to working order. Stiles' voice was as rough as Derek's as he said, "That--I--Yes." 

Stiles' hands knocked against Derek's as Stiles fumbled to undo the other buttons on his jeans. Derek tsked and pushed Stiles' hands away, waiting until Stiles rolled his eyes and demonstratively raised his hands over his head. 

Obedience had never really been a kink of his - he wouldn't be with Stiles if it was; Stiles was anything but obedient. But Derek had to admit that seeing Stiles respond to an unspoken order called to his alpha side on a whole new level.

Derek tugged off Stiles' jeans, taking care of his boxers at the same time, and then shimmied out of his own jeans. 

Stiles snorted. 

"What?" 

"I should have known," Stiles said. "Commando wolf." He raised his leg and pushed a socked foot against Derek's groin, wriggling his toes against Derek's balls. The steady, simmering heat of arousal Derek had been feeling in the pit of his stomach twisted and increased, leaving him breathless and hard. Stiles was absolutely ridiculous. The only think more ridiculous was Derek himself, getting turned on by any and all of the crazy things Stiles did or said. 

Grumbling under his breath, Derek caught Stiles foot and yanked his sock off, repeating the process with the other foot. He let Stiles' foot fall back to the bed and then tapped Stiles' knee in an effort to gain his attention. 

"Distracted already?"

"I didn't realize how big this bed would be with just the two of us in it," Stiles said absently. He blinked, focusing on Derek. He ran his eyes down Derek's bare chest and lower, unthinkingly licking his lips when his eyes took in Derek's erection.

Derek smirked at the sight and pushed his hips out a little, making his cock bob up and down. Stiles eyes followed the movement. "By the time I'm done with you, the size of the bed will be the furthest thing from your mind." 

"Promises, promises." 

Derek ran a hand across Stiles' stomach. Stiles' muscles contracted at the touch and he let out a sound that fell somewhere between a whine and a moan. 

"More," he demanded.

Derek nudged Stiles to lie on his back and straddled him, rolling his hips against Stiles'. The feeling of his cock sliding against Stiles' made Derek groan in pleasure. 

"More," Stiles said again. "Moremoremore." 

Derek backed up a little until he was lying on Stiles' legs. He took a moment to admire Stiles' cock. 

Stiles made an impatient sound. "Are you actually going to make good on your promise or did you just stop by to stare a little?" 

"Shut up; I'm admiring your beauty, you should be flattered."

Stiles snorted. "You could be admiring it in a more hands-on way." 

Derek rolled his eyes, but obligingly wrapped his lips around the head of Stiles' erection. Stiles gasped and Derek opened his mouth wider, taking in more of Stiles' cock. When he had his mouth wrapped around as much as he could take, Derek pressed his tongue to the underside of Stiles' cock. After a moment, he let his fangs extend and graze the sides of it, knowing the added touch of danger was a definite turn on for Stiles. 

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Stiles cursed.

Derek could feel Stiles' thigh muscles quivering in an effort not to move. He pulled off long enough to smirk at Stiles. "We're getting to that. You're always so impatient." 

Derek coated one of his fingers in lube and then went back to sucking the tip of Stiles' cock. He trailed his finger down the length of Stiles' cock and over his balls, loving the smell of musk rising from Stiles as he got even more aroused. He ran his finger around Stiles' asshole before slowly pushing it in. 

"Oh my god, stop teasing me!" 

Derek pulled back, making sure to run his tongue along the slit to catch the drops of pre-cum gathered at the tip. "No. Gonna suck you until you beg, remember?" He licked his lips, humming in pleasure. He loved the texture and the taste of Stiles' cock on his tongue, and he especially loved the way he could drive Stiles wild with just his mouth and his hands. 

With one hand playing with Stiles' ass, Derek still had his other hand and his mouth free to pleasure his lover. Running his left hand leisurely along the length of Stiles' cock, his grip just tight enough to give Stiles a nice if frustrating sensation, he dipped his head down and rested it against Stiles' thigh. "You should see yourself like this, Stiles. Gorgeous," Derek said. 

Whatever Stiles had wanted to reply was swallowed up by the mewling moan that burst out of Stiles' mouth as Derek pushed his nose to the base of Stiles' cock and sucked one of his balls into his mouth. Shifting a little, Derek turned his hips so that one of Stiles' feet was between his legs, moaning when Stiles took the hint and flexed his foot, rubbing it against Derek's cock. 

Letting Stiles' ball slip from his mouth, he wriggled his finger inside Stiles' ass, smirking at the way Stiles gasped and pushed back against him. He pulled his finger out and wiped it off on the bed sheet, ignoring Stiles' moaned complaint at the loss of stimulation.

Closing his hand around the base of Stiles' cock, Derek caught Stiles' eye and smirked before putting his mouth on the tip of his cock, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive head. He lightly shook his head, enjoying the wet slide of his lips as they rubbed against Stiles' cock. Once he'd reached the base, Derek let some spit gather on his tongue and then licked back up to the head in a slow, wet swipe before sucking the head of Stiles' cock back into his mouth. At the same time, he trailed his hand up Stiles' stomach and tweaked one of his nipples just as he started sucking strongly. 

Stiles made a keening sound and bucked against him. "Derek." He moaned, sounding breathless. "Come on. Please." 

Derek ignored him, his fingers playing with Stiles' nipple while he used his tongue to tease the underside of Stiles' cock. Derek scraped his fingernails over the puckered nipple, feeling Stiles' stomach quiver against his arm. 

"Oh god, Derek, please. I need to come. Please fuck me, pleaseplease _please_ ," Stiles babbled. 

Derek pulled back and reached for the lube, squirting a good amount on his fingers. Kneeling between Stiles' legs, he reached back and started preparing himself. Underneath him, Stiles was a sight to behold. His hands were still above his head, fisted into the pillow in an effort to keep them there. His lips were red and shining wetly and Derek knew without asking that Stiles had been biting his lip. Stiles' face was flushed, red splotches high on his cheeks. The blush spread all the way down to his shoulders.

The feeling of Stiles' foot rubbing against his leg made Derek raise his eyes from Stiles' chest. Stiles was watching him through half-closed eyes, his gaze traveling down over Derek's chest until it reached his groin. Stiles wet his lips with his tongue and then bit down on his lower lip. 

Derek let himself fall forward, catching himself on his arms before he crushed Stiles. Stiles gasped, startled, and then burst out laughing. 

"What are you doing?"

"You were biting your lip again," Derek said, brushing his nose against Stiles. "You can't just _do_ that where I can see, Stiles." 

"Right, your biting fetish. I'd forgotten about that," Stiles said, sounding entirely too innocent. Derek's instinct proved to be right when Stiles slowly and deliberately caught his lip between his teeth again. 

If anyone was going to bite Stiles, it would be him. Derek darted in, running his tongue over Stiles' teeth until he let go. He gave Stiles' lip a few soothing kisses and then sucked it into his mouth, scraping his teeth over the soft skin. Moments later, Stiles' hands were in his hair and they were grinding up against each other, Stiles moaning into his mouth. 

"I really wanted you to fuck me tonight," Derek said, nuzzling against the side of Stiles neck. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Stiles' skin and then started sucking, bucking his hips against Stiles. 

"We can - oh crap, do that again! - we can do that later," Stiles said breathlessly, hooking one leg around Derek's. 

Stiles squirmed against him, his hands fluttering against Derek's body, like he couldn't focus enough to actually hold on to Derek. Derek was having some trouble focusing his thoughts as well - not that he'd ever admit to it - so he gave Stiles something to hold on to by grabbing his left hand with his own. 

Stiles groaned when Derek started nibbling at the spot on Stiles' neck, extending his fangs to scrape them along the reddened skin. Stiles raked his fingernails down Derek's back in retaliation, sending a sharp burst of pleasure up Derek's spine. It pushed Derek over the edge, his hips stuttering as he moaned and came, making the slide of their dicks together wetter and smoother. Derek tilted his head up and caught Stiles' earlobe between his teeth, tugging on it before closing his mouth around it and sucking. Underneath him, Stiles shivered and pushed up against him, his breath hitching as he came. 

Derek closed his eyes. He had maybe five minutes before Stiles would start poking him and complaining about the heavy werewolf on top of him. But for now, he could just drift, take a deep breath and enjoy their mingled scents thick in the air. Stiles hand was petting his shoulder although any marks from his fingernails were long healed. 

Derek was just about to open his mouth and suggest a nap before round two when Stiles' phone cut through the silence. Stiles startled, butting his head against Derek's. Derek rolled onto his side and Stiles scrambled for the foot end of the bed, cursing as he leaned over the edge to fish for his jeans. Derek was torn between admiring the view of Stiles' ass wriggling in the air and rolling his eyes at Stiles' antics. A fucked out Stiles was even less coordinated than a properly medicated and well-rested Stiles.

"What?" Stiles said into the phone, stuck half-way off the bed now that he only had one hand free. 

Derek rolled his eyes and pulled him back up, tuning into the phone call when he caught Scott's voice on the other end. The pack had helped him organize the delivery of the bed and then put it together while he and Lydia distracted Stiles. They knew Stiles and Derek would be busy testing the bed for the rest of the night. That's why they'd all conveniently left at the same time. 

"--call the rest of the pack and get down here with Derek right away. There's, like, an entire coven of vampires assembling in the old movie theater," Scott said in a hushed voice. There was some rustling on the other end of the phone and then Isaac's voice continued, "And the guy they've got tied up as a midnight snack doesn't look like he's enjoying himself." 

The phone switched hands again. "Stiles? I think the coven's leader is Professor Conn," Scott said.

"Oh my god, _I knew it!_ " Stiles crowed, turning his gaze on Derek. "'Your professor's not a 300-year-old vampire, Stiles. He's just a middle-aged, disillusioned, small-town professor who never got over the fact that the heyday of sex, drugs and rock & roll happened before his time'," he mimicked, making his werewolf face, complete with finger fangs. "Ha! I was right, he _is_ a vampire. You owe me a million more blowjobs." 

"Damnit, Stiles, you know the rules," Scott said over the phone. "TMI, buddy, TMI."

"Shut up, Scott, it's your own fault for ruining the aftergl--hey!" Stiles protested, glaring at Derek who'd taken the phone from his hands. 

"Scott? We'll call the others and meet you there." Derek hung up without waiting for a reply and tossed the phone back to Stiles. 

They scrambled to get dressed and then rushed to the car, Stiles calling Allison, Cora and Boyd when they were already on the way downtown. 

When they reached the old movie theater, Derek put his hand on Stiles shoulder before he could get out of the car. "Hey, I just wanted to say…" he said, a little breathless. There was a flutter in the pit of his stomach, like something trapped in there was trying to break out. 

Stiles smiled at him. "It's okay, Derek. I already know." 

Derek tightened his grip on Stiles' jacket when he moved to get out of the car. "I love you," he blurted. "You shouldn't be the only who says it all the time. I know that you know, but I figured I should say it occasionally. Especially when it's our anniversary." He reached over and opened the glove compartment, taking out a small, square box. 

Stiles made an eager grab for it and tore off the wrapping paper. He opened the box and let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, you fucker." He balled up the small piece of paper he found inside (it said 'for your next time-sensitive spell') and threw it at Derek's head. With a gleeful smile, he fastened the [cheap, neon pink and gray watch in the shape of a cartoon wolf](http://i.imgur.com/XnzIyQm.jpg) around his wrist. "This is absolutely beautiful and I will treasure it always." 

"You do realize the bed was the actual present, right?" 

"Shut up, don't destroy this beautiful moment," Stiles said, snickering to himself. 

"Why do I put up with you?" 

"'Cause you love me," Stiles replied easily. 

"That I do," Derek said, leaning over to kiss Stiles. 

Seconds later, Scott knocked on the driver's side window. "Are you two coming or should we just deal with these vamps on our own?" 

Stiles pressed another quick kiss to Derek's lips before pulling back and getting out of the car. Derek followed him and together with Scott, they joined the rest of the pack across the street. 

Stiles bounced on his heels and clapped his hands. Cheerfully, he said, "All right, pack, let's go save an innocent life and stake some vampires."

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> # Post Tenebras Lux is Latin. It translates to _after darkness, light_ or _light after darkness_. 
> 
> # There's a really short Wikipedia article on kobaloi (which I picked at random from a list of gnome/goblin creatures). Pretty much nothing I say about them in this story is at all based on actual mythology surrounding them apart from the fact that they're from Greece. Also, there was no way to work it into the narrative without getting too exposition-y, but kobaloi is the plural, kobalos singular. In case you were wondering.
> 
> # There is a reference to Harry Potter in this story, and several to the TV show Supernatural. I paraphrased and/or quoted several iconic lines from Supernatural. Supernatural and Harry Potter are the property of their respective owners and that's definitely not me. (Unfortunately.)
> 
> # That watch I linked to in the epilogue? Stiles would wear it _always_. If only to annoy Derek.
> 
> # I brought Boyd back to life. Just because. SO WHAT?!
> 
> # Edit: And I missed to list the single most obvious reference: Gremlins. I'm pretty sure you're all aware, but obviously I don't the Gremlins movie franchise. Also, obvious Buffy reference is obvious, right?
> 
> # Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story! ♥


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